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J 


AUTHOR: 


STEELL,  WILL 
1866-1941 


J 


TITLE : 


IN  SEVILLE,  AND  THREE 
TOLEDAN  DAYS. 

PLACE: 

NEW  YORK 

DA  TE : 

1894 


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MAY 


/ 


IN  SEVILLE 


»  • 


AND 


IK' 


Three  Toledan  Days 


BY 


WILLIS    STEELL 


Author  of  "The  Death   of  the  Discoverer," 

"IsiDRA,"  Etc 


New  York: 

HILLIER  MURRAY  AND  COMPANY. 

Vanderbilt  Building;. 


1894.. 


irmrr  riir.tii. 


'"S' 


Copyright,  1894, 

BY  HiLLiER  Murray  and  Company, 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED. 


P.  F.  McBreen,  Printer. 

216  and  2i8  William  Street. 

New  York. 


i 


X 


I 


M 


:>,« 


NOTE. 

With  one  exception,  the  articles  which  make  up 
this  book  have  appeared  before  in  print,  and  the  author 
takes  this  opportunity  of  cordially  thanking  the  editors 
of  Harper's  'Ba^ar,  Godeys,  the  Ttmes-T)emocrat  of  New 
Orleans,  and  the  Herald  of  Chicago,  for  permission  to 
use  them  again. 


17611)5 


♦  ♦  Dedication 


My  dear  frank— 

If  this  book  can  look  confidently  to  any  one  for  in- 
dulgence, it  must  be  to  you,  who  «re,  in  some  degree, 
responsible  for  it.  Except  for  the  idea  of  pleasing  you, 
it  would  never  have  appeared  between  covers,  but  had 
been,  perforce,  content  with  the  piece-meal  life  it  has 
hitherto  led  in  the  files  of  various  journals  and  maga- 
zines. Your  responsibility  goes  deeper,  for  I  can  almost 
assert  that  yours  were  the  eyes  that  saw,  and  yours  the 
hand  that  set  down,  much  that  is  here  described.  If  that 
is  not  true  to  the  letter,  in  spirit  it  is  incontrovertible. 

All  that  follows  you  have  already  read  three  or  four 
times  over.  I  suppose  you  will  read  the  book  now,  and 
we  may  regret  together  that  the  spirit  of  our  delightful 
winter  in  Seville  is  not  more  faithfully  preserved.  But 
there  are  hints  within  these  pages  which  you  and  I  alone 
can  appreciate.  How  could  I  reveal  some  of  our  innocent 
secrets  to  others?  Do  you  think  the  attempt  would  have 
been  successful  had  I  unstoppered  the  vase  of  personal 
reminiscence?  We  would  have  lost  some  of  its  subtle 
aroma  without  enriching  the  common  air. 

In  truth,  I  do  not  think  this  book  can  dull  the  edge 
of  our  recollections,  any  more  than  the  newspaper  letters 
which  we  wrote  about  Seville  while  we  were  living  in 


i 


Seville.  They  were  careless  things,  and  this  is  not  much 
better.  But  keep  the  book  which  I  inscribe  to  you,  as  we 
keep  hotel  bills,  (receipted)  and  other  legal  evidence  that 
we  really  have  been  in  Seville.  Otherwise,  as  the  years 
crowd  up  to  a  decade  since  we  were  there,  we  might 
wonder  if  it  were  more  than  a  delightful  dream.  Put  it 
away  and  when  we  talk  again  of  Seville,  it  will  not  be  on 
the  lines  this  book  lays  down.     It  will  be  as  formerly: 

"Do  you  remember ?"    "Have  you  forgotten ?'* 

— incidents  as  undignified  and  joyous  as  youth  itself. 
And  you  may  be  sure,  my  dear  Frank,  that  not  a  moment 
of  that  gay  and  charming  winter  has  been  forgotten  by 
your  friend 

WILLIS  STEELL. 


To  FRANCIS  M.  Livingston. 


If   ■ 


in  SEVILLE. 


h 


<  f 


u 


1 


IN  SEVILLE. 


I 


THAT  first  week  in  Seville  was  a  very 
lonely  one.  It  was  the  rainy  and  guestless 
season,  when  dining  in  the  great  hall  of  the 
Fonda  de  Madrid,  where  we  were  quartered 
all  alone,  was  a  duty  that  subdued  our  spirits 
like  a  funeral.  Two  places  were  laid  for  us 
at  the  head  of  the  board,  which  extended  its 
linen-shrouded  length  through  the  immense 
room,  and  we  had  not  walked  to  our  seats 
many  times  before  the  table  began  to  wear  a 
look  of  reproach,  as  if  but  for  us  they  would 
take  off  the  white  cloth  and  leave  it  to  the 
repose  natural  to  the  season.  There  came 
no  cheerful  French  commercial  travelers,  no 
Spanish  clerks,  who  are  great  supporters  of 
table  d'hote,  to  help  us  out,  for  the  reason 
that  another  ordinary  of  the  city  is  more 
popular  with  them  ;  but,  on  two  evenings,  we 
had  the  company  of  a  thin,  tearful  English 
lady,  who  acknowledged  what  courtesies  we 
could  give  with  monosyllables  and  ends  of 


.^ 


2  IN    SEVILLE. 

smiles.  Before  the  close  of  dinner,  however^ 
she  grew  emboldened  to  beg  our  escort, 
next  day,  to  the  Tobacco  Manufactory. 
Would  we  take  her?  Her  party  was  leaving 
Seville  next  day  but  one,  and  she  was  so  dis- 
trustful of  the  commissionnaires ! 

We  were  charmed.  I  think,  at  the  time, 
we  would  have  been  attracted  by  a  wooden 
woman  if,  by  a  stretch  of  the  possibilities, 
she  could  speak  English — and  the  pale,  fem- 
inine guest  lapsed  confidential.  She  had 
come  to  Seville  with  two  ladies,  who  had  not 
stirred  out  of  their  rooms  since  arriving, 
three  days  before.  ''  Are  they  sick?"  we  in- 
quired with  sympathy. 

*'  Sick  ?  No !"  she  answered,  almost  in  tears. 
**  They  have  simply  been  lying  down,  read- 
ing novels.  What  is  your  idea?  To  come 
to  Seville  to  read  Besant's  novels,  without 
stirring  a  foot  to  see  the  place  where  Carmen 
made  cigarettes!     It  is  just  preposterous." 

When  she  had  gone,  and  with  her  the  En- 
glish novelist's  admirers,  whom,  by  the  way, 
we  never  saw,  the  dreary  state  of  the  Ma- 
drid's dinner  weighed  heavier  than  before, 
and  ac  length  seemed  insupportable.  We 
lost  appetite,  and  must  have  broken  the 
cook's  heart,  it  he  was  a  conscientious  artist, 
by  sending  back  so  many  dishes  untouched. 
At  this  juncture  we  sighed  for  a  place  where 


i 


IN    SEVILLE.  5 

there  would  be  less  to  eat  and  more  com- 
pany to  eat  it.  That  conjunction  is  found  in 
its  highest  development,  we  reflected,  in  an 
American  boarding-house ;  why  not  in  a 
Spanish  ? 

Then  it  was  that  we  discovered  in  our 
wanderings  in  the  streets  of  the  Love  of  God, 
of  Jesus,  of  Santa  Isabel — each  very  clean, 
very  dark,  and  very  winding — one  named  for 
a  more  familiar  saint,  the  O'Donnell,  which, 
for  that  reason,  we  closely  scanned.  So  it 
came  about — I  remember  no  more  romantic 
chance— that  one  day  we  rang  Mariana's 
bell.  The  dim  and  narrow  hall  that  we  were 
admitted  to,  the  dim  and  cold  cuarto  bajo,  or 
room  off  the  hall,  which,  we  were  told,  was 
at  our  disposal ;  the  slatternly  maid  who  told 
us  this,  with  explanations  in  a  Spanish  we 
could  not  understand,  because,  as  we  after- 
ward learned,  it  was  Catalan,  and  lastly,  the 
appearance  of  Mariana  in  person,  a  tall, 
buxom  woman,  with  hard,  white  cheeks  and 
a  cold  smile— surely  none  of  these  induce- 
ments was  tempting  enough  to  cause  us  to 
take  up  our  abode  there.  But  we  did,  and 
I  can  think  of  no  other  temptation. 

Stop  !  There  was  Margarita  ;  she  was  the 
cook,  an  Irish  woman  of  perhaps  fifty  winters, 
stout  and  ruddy;  Margarita  it  must  have  been 
who  clinched  the  bargain.     She  came  out  of 


IN   SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


her  kitchen  on  learning  that  we  were  En- 
glish, and  wept  big,  slow  tears  at  the  sound 
of  her  mother-tongue,  which  she  had  almost 
forgotten. 

Poor  old  Margarita !  Every  morning,  while 
we  remained,  she  came  into  the  dining-room, 
or  stood,  with  arms  folded  under  a  small 
triangular  shawl,  just  inside  of  the  door  to 
demand  what  we  would  eat  for  breakfast  : 
** An  egg  now  ?  "  or  '*  a  bit  of  beef  ?"  only  for 
the  sake  of  hearing  the  answer  in  English. 
Margarita  had  not  many  ideas  in  her  kindly 
old  head  and  fewer  memories;  she  could  not 
remember  when  she  left  Ireland,  but  she  was 
a  saucy  girl  there,  and  she  had  forgotten  when 
she  came  to  Spain,  and  why.  She  was  certain 
of  but  one  thing,  which  she  seemed  to  think 
explained  the  rest,  as  it  certainly  did,  she  had 
married  her  **sojer"  and  accompanied  him. 

Once  we  visited  Margarita's  kitchen ;  that 
was  not  too  remote,  being  at  the  end  of  the 
hall,  two  doors  only  from  our  chamber  and 
adjoining  the  dining-room.  It  was  a  large, 
gloomy  place,  lighted  by  two  disheartened 
windows,  and  seemed  so  fit  for  the  brewing 
of  an  insane  potion  that  after  seeing  it  we 
forgot  to  grumble  at  the  table,  in  our  wonder 
at  any  food  palatable  proceeding  thence. 
Margarita,  indeed,  was  a  cheery  gramalkin, 
and  her  songs  went   up  through   the   huge 


t 


» 


overhanging  chimney  about  as  continuously 
as  the  smoke.  A  brick  dresser,  with  several 
furnaces  in  which  charcoal  was  burned,  filled 
the  space  under  the  chimney,  and  its  surface 
was  constantly  occupied  by  pucheros  that 
were  going  to  the  fire  or  had  but  come  off. 
Other  pucheros,  stone  pots,  hung  on  nails  on 
the  walls,  of  every  different  size,  like  the 
progeny  of  prolific  parents.  From  that 
kitchen,  Margarita  said,  she  had  not  stirred 
for  three  years,  except  when  it  was  neces- 
sary to  go  out  into  the  street  to  haggle  with 
a  cheating  carbonaro ;  and,  in  truth,  she 
seemed  to  be  there  day  and  night ;  the  door 
was  rarely  closed,  and  during  the  day  we 
could  hear  her  moving  heavily  about,  and  at 
night  see  her  sitting  in  the  draught,  with  the 
triangular  shawl  drawn  over  her  head,  and 
smoking  a  pipe  as  objectionable  to  the  nose 
as  an  extinct  volcano. 

The  comedor  of  Mariana's  pension,  on  the 
contrary,  was  an  exceedingly  cheerful  room, 
really  being  the  patio,  enclosed  with  a  glass 
roof,  under  which  so  gayly  sang  half  a  dozen 
canaries  that  I  fancied  they  took  the  glass 
for  an  ordinary  layer  of  atmosphere.  The 
table,  covered  with  a  cloth  no  longer  white, 
filled  the  place.  It  was  thronged  at  the 
dinnerr  hour  with  a  piratical  company  of  sul- 
len,   scowling   boarderS)    who    extinguished 


IN    SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


the  cloth  beneath  arms,  elbows  and  shoulders. 
The  first  impression    made  by  our  fellow- 
guests  was  not  happy;  but   it  improved  as 
we    came    to    know  them  better,  though  it 
would  be  untrue  to  say  that  the  young  men 
who  ate  at  Mariana's  table  ever  grew  less  in- 
attentive than  they  showed  themselves  to  be 
on  the  first  day,  to  many  of  the  commonest 
and  widest  established  axioms  of  good  breed- 
ing as  practised  in  other  parts  of  the  world. 
It  seems  important,  having  said  this,  to  define 
their  position   in   the   world,  for    Mariana's 
was  a  polite  pension,  and  her  boarders  were 
cadets  and  young  government  clerks,  and 
many  of  them  the  sons  of  noblemen,  though 
her  principal  support  was  drawn  from  the 
medical    college,     whose     dissecting-rooms 
were  just  around  the  corner. 

Except  the  cadets,  who  wore  very  becom- 
ing fatigue  caps,  all  the  men  kept  on  their 
hats  at  table,  and  we  seemed  to  be  breaking 
our  daily  bread  in  company  of  a  second-hand 
hat  shop,  that  boasted  its  ability  to  turn  any 
sort  of  old  head  covering  into  an  indistinct 
resemblance  to  the  last  Paris  fashion.  The 
monotony  went  deeper,  for,  except  the  cadets 
again,  who  flaunted  the  flag  of  youth  in  their 
cheeks,  the  countenances  of  this  dinner 
tertulia  had  been  touched  by  the  same  brush, 
one  dipped   in  the  soberest  colors  of    the 


palette.  In  respect  to  age,  also,  no  guest 
seemed  to  have  the  advantage  of  the  others 
— all  were  young,  and  all  were  also  old  ;  in 
appearance  and  in  conversation  they  were 
young  old  men,  who  had  seen  the  world  and 
realized  how  hard  life  was  in  it,  save  in  times 
of  revolution.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  under- 
stood to  say  that  their  appearance  and  con- 
versation affected  this  knowledge,  a  trick 
not  uncommon  with  young  men  the  world 
over.  It  was  the  contrary  with  these  youth- 
ful Spaniards,  a  spirit  of  worldly  wisdom 
affecting  them,  and  weighting  the  brightest 
with  a  measure  of  sadness.  Their  talk  of  the 
events  ot  the  hour,  political  and  economical, 
never  made  one  smile  with  the  half-pitying, 
wholly  envying  feeling  that  young  Ameri- 
cans inspire  in  their  elders  when  they  give  to 
commonplaces  the  accent  of  fresh  discovery. 
One  felt  that  these  young  men  were  handling 
parts  of  the  machine  which  had  crushed 
them,  and  speaking  out  of  the  fullness  of  in- 
herited despair. 

We  had  removed  from  Mariana's,  and 
gained  a  wider  Spanish  experience  before  we 
realized  that  the  manners  of  her  boarders 
were  perfect  copies  of  their  elders,  for  in  the 
vivacity  of  their  prandial  discussions  or  quar- 
rels, if  bandying  depreciatory  diminutives  of 
proper  names  and  distributing   light  adjec- 


8 


IN    SEVILLE. 


tives  among  fathers  and  more  remote  ances- 
tors may  be  called  quarrels,  our  fellow 
boarders  seemed  to  be  very  young.  Ours 
was  a  table  of  words,  where  we  ate  and  de- 
bated with  equal  voracity.  No  subject  was 
too  sublime  or  too  petty  for  Mariana's  pailia- 
ment,  and  we  were  equally  divided,  the  right 
side  of  the  board  from  the  left,  over  them  all. 
If  the  Left  jeered  at  the  bailerina  of  a  salon 
cantante,  the  Right  instantly  spoke  up  in 
her  favor;  but  Right  and  Left  usually  spoke  at 
once,  or,  if  either  seized  a  moment  of  silence, 
to  begin  to  declare  an  opinion,  the  other  side 
was  up,  shouting  a  perfect  din  of  "  aba— aaa 
— jos,"  and  keeping  it  up  till  breath  gave  out 
all  round  the  table. 

Such  reputations  as  were  made  and  un- 
made in  the  same  instant  at  Mariana's  !  The 
Prima,  of  the  Ctrvante  sings  false,  cries 
the  Left,  and  Right  almost  instantaneously 
shouts  that  Spain  enjoys  in  her  another  Maria 
Garcia.  Sefior  Sagasta  at  one  moment  is  the 
leader  of  his  party  and  his  country's  good 
angel ;  at  the  next  he  is  a  dolt,  a  trickster,  a 
puppet— ^^abaaaa-jo!"  •  Down  with  him  ! 

It  was  not  easy  for  the  stranger  to  make 
nice  distinctions  in  these  family  jars,  so  to 
speak,  or  to  know  the  exact  line  that  divided 
friendly  difference  from  hateful  dissension, 
but  I  observed  that  one  young  man  who  sat 


IN    SEVILLE.  9 

near  enough  to  the  head  of  the  table  to  be 
neutral,  though  mostly  a  silent  and  diligent 
feeder,  always  spoke  up  at  those  moments 
when  blows  appeared  imminent,  and  by  a 
sally,  between  two  spoonsful  of  beans,  buried 
the  hatchet  in  a  laugh.  This  peacemaker 
had  nature  to  aid  him  ;  he  was  short  and 
stout,  with  a  droll  obliquity  in  one  eye  that 
gave  a  perennial  comical  expression  to  his 
countenance,  and  a  tang  to  his  words  that 
never  failed  to  settle  Mariana's  swarming 
bees.  He  wore  the  capa  parda,  and  a  very 
shabby  one  it  was,  in  keeping  with  his  cloth- 
ing and  well  cherished  hat ;  but  poor  and  a 
commoner  though  he  was,  the  other  boarders 
took  their  cue  from  an  intellectual  superiority 
they  never  questioned. 

In  any  account,  however  sketchy,  of  our 
huespedes  Emilio,  the  dining-room  boy 
must  not  be  omitted.  A  little  touch  of 
Emilio  had  to  be  added  to  each  diner  to  bring 
him  into  shading  with  the  others,  but  if  he  had 
not  acted  as  a  universal  blender  Emilio's  per- 
sonality would  compel  him  into  the  relation. 
He  had  entire  charge  of  the  comedor,  and 
kept  it  in  a  state  of  slovenly  neatness— neat- 
ness at  second  hand— that  reminded  one  of 
the  mental  state  of  Sancho  Panza.  At  meal- 
time he  brought  from  the  kitchen  knave, 
cavalier  and  king,  as  the  three  courses  of  a 


f 


I 


ko 


IN    SEVILLE. 


Spanish  dinner  are  denominated,   whenever 
they  Were  required  (the  service  was  compli- 
cated  by   late  arrivals  and    went    forward 
backwards),  besides  carrying  oil,  vinegar  and 
salt  from  one  end  of  the  table  to  the  other, 
supplying   napkins,    replenishing  baskets  of 
bread   and   fruit,    carrying  off  dishes,    and 
doing  all  in  a  blundering  way,  as  if  he  were 
moving  about  in  twilight,  for  which  he  re- 
ceived a  sufficient  amount  of  abuse.     Emilio 
was,  indeed,  somewhat  impervious  to  scold- 
ings, for  he  was  quite  as  full  of  native  cun- 
ning and  hereditary  deference  as  the  Squire 
in  the  first  half  of  Book  First.  He  could  not 
have  been  more  than  fourteen  years  of  age, 
though  his  skin-dried,  colorless  face,  under 
a  faded  silk  cap  with  a  peak,  would  have 
suited  an  old  man.   He  had  spindle  legs,  sup- 
porting what  was  bound,    in   time,  to  be  a 
paunch,  and    I  would  like   to   meet   Emilio 
again,  in  order  to  see  if  this  descendant  of 
the  governor  of  Barataria  fulfilled,  in  phys- 
ical proportions  as  well  as  in  shrewdness  and 
credulity,  the  promise  of  his  youth. 


f 


I 


, 


IN   SEVILLE. 


II 


tl. 

THE  calle  O^Donnell  is  a  little  street  of 
Seville,  very  short,  very  narrow,  and 
very  quiet.  For  some  time  we  held  it  in  light 
esteem  as  a  place  for  the  determined  sight- 
seer to  escape  from,  but  after  accident  had 
discovered  to  us  that  it  contained  within  itself 
the  elements  of  Sevillian  life,  the  O'Donnell 
rivalled  for  our  attention  with  the  Mercado. 
Inapproachably  picturesque  had  seemed  to 
us  the  Mercado— a  quaint  conflux  of  streets 
to  the  east  of  the  fashionable  Sierpes— and  a 
pen-and-ink  sketch  of  it  will  show  by  con- 
trast what  a  pastel  of  the  O'Donnell  ought 

to  be. 

The  Mercado  had  scores  of  tiny  shops  with 

fronts  to  be  taken  out  every  morning,  not 
much  larger  than  those  of  a  Moorish  bazar, 
and,  like  them,  containing  merchandise  of  a 
surprising  variety  :  knives  and  daggers,  but- 
tons and  beads  ;  rugs,  carpets,  rolls  of  cloth, 
and  every  thing  in  the  line  of  confections,  from 
prunes  to  preserved  watermelons.  This  old 
quarter  follows  the  Arabian  custom  in  group- 
ing together  the  shops  where  the  same  kind 
of  goods  is  sold.  There  are  the  booths  of  the 
clothing-dealers,  gaudy  with  pink,  blue  and 
orange  vests  and  scarfs.     There  are  the  silk 


i 


12 


IN    SEVILLE. 


mercers'  shops,  and  the  hardly  less  bright 
booths  of  the  leather  merchants,  where  thou- 
sands of  sets  of  harness  of  every  conceivable 
color  for  horses,  mules  and  asses  are  hanging 
upon  the  walls.  And  there  are  the  dens  of 
the  armorers,  where  all  sorts  of  knives  and 
blades  and  spears  are  kept,  from  the  primitive 
Iberian  bident— a  long  pole  with  a  crescent 
of  steel — to  the  matador's  straight  Toledan 
blade. 

The  neighborhood  of  the  Mercado  is  na- 
turally the  favorite  stage  of  street   players  ; 
the  violin  and  the   guitar — chiefly  the  guitar 
^and  a  concertina  or  two,  are  forever  wail- 
ing there  like  starved  kittens  for  food.     But 
the  O'Donnell,  as  it  has  less  traffic  and  fewer 
idlers,  rarely   has  any  street   players  of   its 
own.     What  music  it  enjoys  it  overhears  at 
long  range,  from  the  begging   musicians  of 
the  Plaza  Magdalena,  or  the  Plaza  del  Duque, 
which  stop  its  progress  north  and   south  re- 
spectively.    The  shops  of  the  O'Donnell  are 
larger    and    emptier    than     the    Mercado's 
booths,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  detect  differences 
between  their  customers,  those  of  the  O'Don- 
nell buying  in  as  small  quantities  and  taking 
as  long  a  time  about  it  as  those  of  the  Mer- 
cado.    Whenever   we    sat    behind   our  reja 
and  ate  iron,  as  the  Sevillians  say,  we  learned 
as  much  about  the  habits  of  the  people  as  we 


I 


^ 


IN    SEVILLE. 


13 


could  hope  to  do  by  posting  ourselves  in 
the  crowded  and  fatiguing  Mercado,  and 
with  the  advantage,  not  to  be  despised,  of 
personal  comfort. 

The  day  begins  early  and  in  the  most  in- 
teresting fashion.  Beneath  my  observatory 
(the  window,  barred  like  a  prison's,  is  scar- 
cely a  man's  height  above  the  street)  flows  a 
stream  of  feminine  life  on  its  way  to  the  mass 
in  the  neighboring  church  in  the  calle  de  las 
Armas.  I  can  even  lie  in  bed  and  count  them 
as  they  pass— by  a  rosette  of  lace,  a  bit  of 
fluttering  ribbon.  But  I  despise  a  soul  so 
sluggish.  I  will  rise,  dress  myself,  and  lean 
gently  against  the  iron  bars.  Softly  as  I  take 
my  station,  still  as  I  remain,  the  devotee  com- 
ing towards  my  window  knows  I  am  there. 
Her  eyes  are  cast  down,  her  step  demure, 
her  hands  folded— I  regret  that  I  am  going 
to  see  only  the  top  of  her  head — until  she  is 
directly  beneath  me.  Then  her  hands  fly 
apart,  her  head  sways  quickly  back,  and  two 
great  black  eye^  dip  full  into  mine.  She 
smiles  maliciously,  deliciously.  Oh  !  was  I 
not  right  when  I  said  she  knew  I  was  there  ? 

At  the  mouth  of  the  O'Donnell  a  pastry 
cook  has  his  shop,  a  fine  place  painted  in 
yellow  and  blue,  indigestible  colors,  and  it 
makes  an  obstruction  in  this  feminine  stream 
that  no  woman  wave  of  it   can  get  around. 


I 


14 


IN    SEVILLE. 


She  is  powerless  to  avoid  drifting  in  there 
as  in  an  eddy  to  eat  a  cake  and  hear  the  news. 
The  woman  behind  the  counter  has  a  face  as 
ugly  as  her  tongue  is  unctuous — which  is 
paying  her  a  left-handed  compliment,  for  no 
courtier  could  surpass  her  in  flattering  the 
purchasers,  most  of  whom  are  evidently  cus- 
tomers of  long  standing. 

''  Ave  Maria  !  "  she  cries,  covering  at  the 
same  time  a  cake  frosted  with  pink  and  white 
sugar.  ''  Don't  take  that  one.  Dona  Yoletta, 
Take  a  chocolate  to  deaden  your  own  colors, 
or  the  men  will  pull  this  shop  over  my 
ears." 

''I've  a  message  for  you,  madonna,  from 
— the  padre." 

Next  she  detains  a  well  preserved  beauty 
who  has  despatched  her  morning  sweet. 
Then  ensues  a  medley  of  whispers  and 
screams,  in  which  the  cunning  shopwoman 
mingles  praises  of  the  lady's  beauty  and  enco- 
miums of  her  own  du/ces  adornados, 

A  more  mysterious  shop,  one  which  had 
many  women  callers,  but  sent  them  away 
looking  unhappy,  kept  four  or  five  doors 
from  the  pasteleria.  Its  attractive  windows 
usually  displayed  a  fine  toca  or  mantilla,  or 
some  costly  trifle  of  lace  and  silk,  but  its 
shelves  were  bare.  This  shop  was  always 
open  at  night,  and  to  a  late  hour.  Often  after 


IN    SEVILLE. 


15 


I  have  blown  out  my  candle  I  have  seen  a 
light  streaming  through  the  panes.  Once  I 
went  in  to  ask  the  price  of  an  elaborately 
embroidered  scarf  which  hung  in  the  window, 
A  small  boneless  man,  looking  more  like 
a  Burmese  than  a  Spaniard,  came  forward 
with  a  suspicious  air.  He  quoted  an  extrav- 
agant price,  and  without  permitting  me  to 
examine  the  scarf,  lifted  it  down  and  with- 
drew into  the  back  room.  A  few  minutes 
after  he  returned  to  hasten  my  departure. 
In  general  the  noble  Spaniard  who  keeps 
shop  is  indifferent  whether  you  buy  or  not, 
but  this  one  carried  indifference  to  the  ex- 
treme of  Oriental  contempt.  I  learned  later 
that  the  suspicious  little  man  was  not  a 
genuine  shopkeeper,  but  a  go-between  of 
noble  ladies  whom  poverty  compelled  to  sur- 
render their  grandmothers'  laces,  and  other 
ladies  whose  ancestors  had  neglected  to 
provide  them  with  such  feminine  patents  of 
nobility. 

After  the  religious  have  gone,  the  street, 
or  that  side  of  it  which  I  see,  falls  back  into 
a  delicious  doze,  induced  by  the  transparent 
shadows,  like  veils  of  blue  tulle,  blown  softly 
up  and  down  by  the  cool,  fresh  morning 
breeze.  The  walls  directly  opposite  my  win- 
dow rise  very  high ;  I  cannot  see  the  sky 
above  them.     They  have  neither  shape  nor 


\ 


i6 


IN   SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


17 


form,  being  the  backs  of  buildings  that  front 
on  the  Sierpes,  and  if  they  ever  had  any  char- 
acter repeated  coats  of  Hme  ha^^  sunk  it  out 
of  sight.  These  walls  have  neither  windows 
nor  doors,  and  they  look  as  if  they  had  been 
thrown  up  merely  to  reflect  the  sun  dazzlingly 
in  the  afternoon,  and  in  the  morning  to  trans- 
late the  indescribable  transparency  of  the 
shadows.  They  have  another  use,  it  seems, 
which  is  to  frame  between  them  a  pretty 
house  with  balconied  windows,  a  street  door 
having  the  Moorish  arch,  and  an  ogive  win- 
dow on  the  ground-floor.  This  little  house 
is  whitewashed  also,  the  brown  tiles  of  the 
roof  now  yellowing  against  the  sky  supplying 
the  only  touch  of  color,  but  it  has  the  look  of 
being  happily  inhabited.  And  presently  the 
look  becomes  certainty.  A  pair  of  rounded 
arms  reach  forth,  and  hang  on  the  iron  rail- 
ing a  drapery  of  crimson  damask  embroidered 
in  gold  arabesques.  While  I  am  straining 
my  eyes  to  see  through  the  half-open  shutters 
the  sun  leaps  down  and  seizes  for  his  own  the 
brilliant  stuff.  Instantly  the  O'Donnell, 
which  had  been  state  before,  becomes 
pageantry. 

Breakfast-time  comes  and  goes,  the  men  of 
the  quarter  have  returned  to  business,  and 
the  O'Donnell  at  last  begins  its  day.  Itinerant 
merchants  turn  the  corner  around  the  pastry 


1 


shop,  and  pass  slowly  up  and  down  the  street, 
driving  before  them  mules  and  asses  laden 
with  straw  and  charcoal,  and  shouting 
through  raucous  throats:  "Paja!  paja ! 
Carbon !  Cabrito !"  These  men,  worn  by 
privation  and  burned  by  the  sun,  are  clad  in 
poor,  gray  garments,  but  their  animals  have 
gaudy  caparisons  of  red  or  yellow  cloth, 
hung  about  with  bells,  and  ornamented  with 
tassels  and  plumes.  In  their  wake  come 
fruit-venders  wnth  baskets  of  oranges  and 
pomegranates;  and  as  this  traffic  is  principally 
left  to  women,  it  makes  the  liveliest  hour  of 
the  morning  in  the  O'Donnell,  when  cooks 
and  fruit-women  join  battle.  Scornful  and 
indignant  exclamations  arise  on  every  side,  a 
stifled  hum  floats  down  from  the  Magdalena 
Plaza,  and  standing  at  the  door  of  our  hues- 
pedes,  Margarita  shrieks  and  implores  and 
dismisses  her  favorite  market-woman  all  in 

one  breath. 

At  length  the  bedlam  of  bargaining  ceases. 
The  merchants  have  retired,  and  the  domes- 
tics are  left  in  possession  of  the  street.  Now 
is  the  opportunity  of  the  organ  players  and 
inountebanks.  This  is  the  moment  when 
cooks  are  at  leisure  and  open-handed,  as  those 
should  be  who   have  gained  a  great  battle. 

The  w^omen  stand  in  their  doors,  sur- 
rounded  by  their  purchases,  and   scan   the 


> 


iS 


IN    SEVIJ^LE. 


IN   SEVILLE. 


19 


Street  up  and  down,  as  if  inviting  the  players. 
Sometimes  the  invitation  is  accepted.  See 
this  party  of  two— or  is  it  three  B— that  enters 
the  O'Donnell.  It  stops  beneath  my  reja. 
The  man  throws  his  guitar  across  his  arm 
and  strikes  a  loud  chord.  The  woman  sets 
down  two  bundles;  one  of  them  looks  as  if 
it  possessed  life,  and  she  unrolls  and  spreads 
out  the  other— a  faded  carpet — on  the  pave- 
ment. Then  she  takes  up  her  concertina  and 
accompanies  her  husband,  while  the  first  bun- 
dle— yes,  it  possesses  life— begins  to  dance. 
Now  I  am  glad  that  my  window  is  raised  the 
height  of  a  man  above  the  street.  If  it  were 
lower  I  should  see  nothing,  for  every  cuchina 
has  emptied  itself,  and  the  curious  crowd  is 
dense  indeed.  Yet  I  see  for  a  long  time 
without  comprehending.  What  is  it  that  is 
dancing  ?  Is  it  an  automaton  ?  Is  it  a 
human  being?  The  music  stops,  with  a  long 
piercing  note,  and  the  dancer  looks  up.  It 
is  a  female  dwarf,  a  creature  with  a  woman's 
face  and  bust,  but  without  legs.  When  the 
wind  of  the  cachucha  blows  out  her  volu- 
minous  skirts,  I  can  see  that  she  dances  on 
stumps.  She  looks  like  an  evil  disposed 
gnome,  a  descendant  of  the  two  hideous 
dwarfs  in  Las  Meninas,  and  to  the  piece  of 
money  that  falls  on  the  carpet  she  responds 
by  blowing  me  a  repulsive  kiss. 


^1 


Fortune   loiters  in  the  O'Donnell  to-day. 
Here  comes  a  troop  of  recruits  on  the  way 
to  the   Ayuntamiento.       Coarse    but    open 
countenances  these  fellows  have,  and   they 
plainly   relish    the    sarcastic   speeches  that 
reach  their  ears  from  the  women  on  either 
side.     In  lieu  of  answer,  which  is  forbidden, 
the  soldiers  slyly  flaunt  the  vulgar  scarfs  tied 
about  their  waists— a  gesture  which  enrages 
some  of  the  women  and  amuses  others.     A 
young  officer  of  an   aristocratic   pallor  and 
slimness  rides  a  magnificent  horse  in  front  of 
the  band.     He  looks  neither  to  the  left  nor 
to  the  right,  yet  warm  eyes  and  a  flattering 
silence  pursue  him.     A  lame  old  man  and  a 
tiny  boy,  both  enveloped  in  ragged  garments 
varnished  with  dirt,  come  next,  pushing  and 
pulling  a  wretched  little  donkey  packed  to 
the  level  of  my  window  with  household  furni- 
ture.    The  old  man,  who  is  dripping  with 
perspiration,  replies  bitterly  to  the  torrent  of 
female  abuse     showered  upon  him,  and  the 
tiny   boy   yells  out  in  his  childish  treble  a 
string  of  adult  oaths.     Three   mangy  dogs 
that  have  been  driven   out  of  ^  the  plaza  del 
Duque,  where  they  spent  the  night,  pass  fur- 
tively along  in  the  centre  of  the  street,  in- 
creasing  their   pace    at    the    cries    of    the 
women,  and  glancing  up  with  hopeless  eyes, 
like  the  pariahs  that  they  are.     A  stone  that 


20 


IN   SEVILLE. 


somebody  throws  strikes  one  dog.  He  does 
not  even  stop  to  yelp,  but  speeds  on  faster. 
A  sudden  silence  falls  on  the  tongues  of  my 
neighbors.  It  tells  me  that  the  frightful  old 
woman,  her  head  bound  with  a  red  handker- 
chief, now  passing  in  the  street  noiselessly 
and  without  raising  her  eyes  from  the  ground, 
is  a  fortune-teller.  One  tall  girl,  with  defi- 
ance in  her  mien,  runs  out  of  a  doorway  and 
slips  something  into  the  old  woman's  lifeless 
hand.  Then  she  retires  and  shuts  the  door 
before  the  flaming  head-dress  of  this  madre 
de  Triana  has  vanished  into  the  plaza.  She 
knows  that  as  soon  as  the  gypsy  is  out  of 
hearing  her  fellow-servants  of  the  quarter 
will  shriek  with  scornful  laughter  ;  and  she 
knows,  too,  that  not  one  of  them  but  has  paid 
the  old  woman  a  lee  for  a  handsome 
caballero. 

Attended  by  a  crowd  of  ragged  boys, 
bright  eyed  and  rich  complexioned,  like 
Murillo's  models,  a  hand-organ  turns  into  the 
0'Donnell~a  true  hand-organ,  rare  in  Seville. 
There  is  a  clapping  of  hands,  a  cheering  as 
of  one  woman,  but,  alas!  it  is  too  late. 
Smothered  commands  issue  from  the  inte- 
riors. It  is  time  to  prepare  the  puchero  if  the 
O'Donnell  is  to  dine  to-day,  and  the  mis- 
tresses are  calling  in  their  servants.  Angry, 
cxpostulatory,  with  many  a  backward  glance. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


21 


the  women  obey ;  and  the  grinder,  who  had 
already  resumed  position,  shrugs  his  shoul- 
ders and  wheels  his  organ  in  the  direction  of 
the  plaza. 

A  repose,  a  quiet  that  is  not  at  all  melan- 
choly, settles  upon  the  street,  out  of  which 
the  blue  shadows  have  long  since  departed. 
I  perceive  that  the  sun  is  shining  hotly  on 
the  upper  half  of  the  blank  wall  opposite,  and 
revealing,  with  its  implacable  light,  green 
and  iron-red  crevices  that  were  not  noticeable 
before.  All  the  cracks  and  discolorations  of 
the  painted  shutters,  now  tightly  closed,  all 
the  dilapidation  of  the  tilCvS,  the  broken  rails 
of  the  balcony  in  the  little  house  that  ap- 
peared but  a  moment  since  so  new  and  pure, 
are  painfully  obvious  now.  I  look  to  see  if 
the  crimson  drapery  has  caught  fire.  It  no 
longer  hangs  on  the  balcony.  While  I  have 
been  intent  on  the  life  below  my  window,  the 
round  arms  have  emerged  and  withdrawn 
again. 

How  hot  it  is  !  Occasionally  a  man  or  a  beast 
passes  in  the  street,  but  they  seem  like  fig- 
ures in  a  dream.  The  people  walking  in  the 
plaza  resemble  dark  shadows  floating  across 
a  calcium-lighted  screen.  The  solid  buildings 
opposite  appear  to  shake  and  tremble  in  the 
furnace,  and  I  should  not  be  surprised  to  see 
their  tiles  fall  down,  their  sides  crumble,  and 


2i 


IN   SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


23 


the  red  flames  leap  skyward.  But  I  should 
wish  to  save  out  of  the  gerteral  destruction 
the  pretty  house  I  admire  so  much  ;  or  if  I 
could  not  succeed  so  far,  at  least  to  rescue 
its  mistress.  Where  is  she  now  ?  In  the  can- 
opied court,  among  palms,  in  a  dusky  golden 
^reen  atmosphere,  sunk  in  yellow  silk  cush- 
ions, and  listening,  with  her  head  supported 
by  one  of  those  pretty  arms,  to  the  ripple  of 
a  fountain? 

Alas !  my  reja  is  growing  painfully  hot  to 
the  touch.  The  sultry  air  hangs  leaden.  In 
a  little  while  the  fierce  sun  will  enter. 

But  it  is  hotter  across  the  way.  The  sun 
has  climbed  down  from  the  upper  windows 
and  is  licking  the  defaced  tile-work  of  the 
arched  door.  Its  burnished  tongue  passes 
over  every  rosette,  into  every  recessed  hive, 
along  every  stalactite  of  the  ogive  window. 
It  reveals  to  me  another  row  of  ogives,  small- 
er  and  behind  the  first,  of  which  in  shadow 
or  out  of  the  direct  ray  they  look  like  the 
ornamental  filling.  The  intruding  sun  throws 
them  out  in  their  true  value,  and  I  see  that 
the  interior  row  is  carved  in  a  lace-like  pat- 
tern of  arabesques  rarer  and  more  delicate 
than  those  one  may  run  and  admire.  It  is 
always  possible  to  know  true  Arabian  art, 
which  spends  its  greatest  elaboration  on 
things  which  must  be  hunted  for.     I  see  also 


that  this  inner  row  of  ogives  have  escaped 
the  whitewash  brush.  All  that  fine  lacework, 
all  those  tiny  circles  and  crescents  and  ro- 
settes, were  once  brilliant  with  pink  and  yel-' 
low  and  green  pigments ;  they  are  not  abso- 
lutely faded  now  ;  indeed,  they  are  sparkling 
at  this  moment,  like  stones  which  when 
dipped  in  water  recover  instantly  a  liquid 
freshness  and  brightness. 

The  sun  is  back  on  the  tiles  ;  a  reddish 
shadow  hangs  midway  between  street  and 
roof.  The  windows  and  doors  of  the  0*Don- 
nell  are  pushed  open,  with  one  exception — 
the  window  I  have  been  watching  through- 
out the  afternoon.  From  the  other  houses 
women  come  forth  and  seat  themselves  in 
doorways  and  balconies ;  some  carry  rocking- 
chairs  into  the  street ;  and  there,  knitting, 
sewing,  spinning  wool,  singing  songs,  or  tel- 
ling the  sins  of  the  absent,  they  pass  the  hours 
before  dinner.  These  tertulias  are  made  up 
of  mistresses  and  maids,  a  beautiful  equality 
seeming  to  exist  among  them,  and  white 
dresses  of  silk  or  gauze  mix  with  print  gowns 
of  pink  and  blue.  Most  of  these  women 
show  a  fondness  for  decorating  themselves 
with  flowers — carnations  at  the  throat,  roses 
nestling  in  blue-black  hair.  Three  or  four 
domestics  have  Madras  handkerchiefs  twisted 
over  their  foreheads,   and    I   can   count  as 


I 


24 


IN    SEVILLE. 


many  sefioras  who  wear  shawls  of  crepe  de 
Chine  draped  about  their  shoulders.  The 
scene  is  very  animated  and  charming,  and  re-^ 
calls  Venice  by  its  brilliancy  pf  color,  which 
is  never,  in  general  effect,  loud  or  common- 
place. And  yet  the  traveller  who  knows 
both  will  not  liken  the  women  of  Seville  to 
the  women  of  Venice. 

I  sit  in  my  window  and  join  fervently  in 
all  the  gossip  going.  (It  is  dusk  now  in  my 
chamber,  and  I  am  not  obliged  to  conceal 
myself.)  One  merry  nimble  spirit  made  me 
an  accessory  to  the  crime  of  slandering  a 
jeweller's  wife  who  dwelt  somewhere  in  the 
calle  O'Donnell.  I  did  not  know  Mrs.  Jew- 
eller, and  it  was  hardly  possible  that  I  should 
ever  see  her,  but  I  drank  in  the  evidence  as 
it  flowed  from  her  accuser's  ruby  lips,  and 
promptly  judged  her  guilty.  The  crimination 
came  in.  such  liquid  accents,  accompanied  by 
such  ringings  of  silvery  laughter,  that  the  tale 
of  Mrs.  Jeweller  and  her  swain  remains  a  mu^ 
sical  memory  like  Parasina.  Of  course  it  was 
not  so  sad  or  so  bad  ;  in  fact,  the  jeweller's 
lady  stood  accused  of  nothing  more  serious 
than  carrying  on  a  flirtation  of  glances  with 
the  leader  of  the  San  Fernande  orchestra,  a 
pale  handsome  youth  in  the  opposite  balcony. 
But,  Maria  Santisima  !  she  did  her  hair  every 
day  a  la  Francesca^  stuck  a   rose   in   it   and 


! 


•*l 


IN    SEVILLE. 


^•5 


placed  herself  directly  under  his  eyes. 
V/ere  there  letters  between  them  ?  Quien 
sabe?  But  it  was  the  wrong  way  for  the 
woman  to  go  about  keeping  what  is  sworn, 
and,  por  Dios,  there  were  still  unmarried 
girls  in  Seville  ! 

The  O'Donnell  is  left  to  itself.  There  was 
a  rustling  of  feminine  garments,  a  scamper 
ing  of  feet,  good  byes  exchanged,  as  soon  as 
the  first  grave  and  sober  seiior  turned  into 
the  street.  He  is  followed  by  others.  Heavy 
footsteps  fall,  and  dark  forms,  singly  or  in 
groups  of  two  and  three,  pass  my  window. 
The  narrow  way  closes  up,  the  houses  seem- 
ing to  draw  closer  together,  as  if  for  com- 
panionship and  protection  against  the  dread 
of  night.  The  sky  is  dark  blue,  almost  black, 
but  clear  and  apparently  very  far  off.  Lights 
gleam  in  patios.  The  pasteleria  at  the  corner 
is  a  blaze  of  glory  ;  the  pawnbroker's  win- 
dows throw  out  luring  beams  ;  and  back, 
away  back,  in  the  depths  behind  the  ogive 
window,  shines  a  tiny  point  of  light  like  a 
cigarette.  Whence  the  all-powerful  influence 
of  mystery  ?  As  night  solemnly  falls  in  this 
quiet  corner,  I  am  filled  with  conjectures 
about  this  closed  house  that  nevertheless  is 
inhabited.  A  sickening  thought  comes.  I 
put  it  away,  but  it  returns.  Is  it  possible  that 
she  is  Mrs.  Jeweller  ? 


26 


IN   SEVILLE. 


III. 

ADMISSION  into  thevte  intime  of  Seville 
did  not  immediately  follow  the  instal- 
lation at  Mariana's.  For  a  week  longer  we 
strolled  the  streets,  like  the  tourists  we  were, 
and  not  like  the  citizens  we  wished  to  be- 
come. And  for  a  week  longer  the  waiter  of 
the  Cafe  Suizo  served  our  chocolate  with  the 
indifference  he  feels  for  all  transients.  But 
a  brighter  day  was  coming,  and  it  dawned 
rosy  clear  when  one  of  us  remembered 
enough  of  his  algebra  to  help  the  cadet  who 
occupied  the  chamber  behind  ours,  over  the 
hedge  of  an  equation.  He  used  to  lie  in  bed 
lo  keep  warm,  cloak  and  fatigue  cap  on,  puz- 
zling over  x's  and  y's,  and  throwing  dirt  on 
the  tomb  of  Algebar,  who  invented  and  gave 
his  name  to  that  branch  of  mathematics, 
which  is  the  hate  of  all  brave  cadets.  Out 
of  gratitude  the  young  soldier  transformed 
himself  into  an  invaluable  cicerone,  and  it  is 
but  justice  to  say  that  our  pleasantest  adven- 
tures in  Seville  were  due  to  him.  He  made 
Sevillian  majos  of  us  (so  far  as  indifferent 
material  permitted),  and  if  we  never  leai  ned 
the  proper  distance  to  follow  behind  a  beauty 
in  the  paseo,  if  we  never  acquired  the  correct, 
stony,    respectful,  but   burning  stare,    with 


) 


IN    SEVILLE. 


27 


which  to  ogle  her,  it  was  not  his  fault,  but  our 
natural  obtuseness.  In  other  matters  his 
coaching  met  with  more  success.  We  were 
quick  to  adopt  the  peremptory  tone  that 
transformed  the  surly  camerero  into  a  quick 
and  docile  servant.  We  comprehended  the 
distinction  between  applause  at  the  opera 
and  applause  at  the  salon  cantante,  and  we 
learned  a  few  soft  musical  phrases  to  express 
admiration,  that  passed  current  with  almost 
all  Spanish  women.  These  were  twice 
blessed,  or  at  least  they  blessed  us,  for  after 
we  had  said  in  effect  to  a  lady,  whom  we  en- 
countered at  a  church  portal,  that  the  mother 
of  such  a  divinity  deserved  the  gratitude  of 
all  men,  we  were  cheered  by  the  thought 
that  we  were  less  alien  than  before. 

Moreover,  through  walking  often  in  com- 
pany of  the  senorito,  the  cadet,  we  soon  had 
a  bowing  acquaintance  with  many  Sevillians, 
who  drove  every  evening  in  las  Delicias. 
This  was  a  tantalizing  privilege,  to  be  sure, 
and  we  never  ventured  to  exert  it  when  we 
walked  alone  ;  yet  it  did  us  no  harm  to  hope 
that  acquaintance  at  sight  would  ripen  event- 
ually into  something  warmer.  Meanwhile, 
we  extended  our  list  of  male  associates  to 
include  all  our  cadet's  comrades,  until  we 
could  pride  ourselves  that  no  other  civilians 
had  as  many  friends  in  the  army.    They  made 


28 


IN    SEVILLE. 


pleasant  companions,  provided  one  lent  an 
unwearied  ear  to  the  tales  of  love.  Each 
of  them  had  his  Julita,  his  Martita,  his 
Blanca,  who  was  the  diamond  of  girls.  Nat- 
urally, old  acquaintanceship  took  precedence, 
and  so  long  as  our  friend,  the  cadet,  cared  to 
discourse  of  his  inamorita —  which  was  just 
as  many  hours  as  were  not  wasted  at  drill  or 
in  the  algebra  demonstration  room  —  we 
accompanied  him.  We  burned  ;  we  froze  ; 
we  spoke  tenderly  or  passionately ;  we  re- 
proached her,  we  scorned  her,  according  to 
his  mood.  Perhaps  I  should  say  according 
to  her  mood,  tor  the  cadet's  Martita  was,  in 
lact,  a  diamond  of  a  girl,  and  very  hard. 
Days,  nay  weeks,  would  go  by,  and  she 
would  respond  to  his  letters,  handed  in 
hourly,  not  one  line,  not  one  word,  nothing! 
"  Yet  for  thy  sake,  proud  girl,  I  burn  triple 
candles  over  that  accursed  algebra !  If  thou 
hadst  not  sung  at  the  tertulia  of  thy  aunt : 

Ni  en  batella  el  buen  guerrero, 

I  had  not  clothed  myself  in  shackles !  " 

But  next  day,  or  as  it  sometimes  happened, 
the  same  day  he  had  given  vent  in  reproaches 
like  the  above  to  his  tortured  spirit,  he  would 
have  a  different  song  to  sing  over  our  coffee. 
He  had  received  a  little  note  from  her.  Ah, 
yes,   it  lay  here  (tapping  his  heart),  it   lay 


IN   SEVILLE. 


29 


buried  here ;  none  but  she  and  he  would 
ever  know  what  that  sacred  page  contained. 
Seiiors,  you  apprehend  ?  The  treasured 
secret  of  love  !  Then  he  would  take  it  out  of 
his  pocket  and  read  it  aloud,  word  for  w^ord. 
He  would  have  been  a  dull  swain,  therefore, 
who,  with  our  advantages,  had  not  soon 
learned  how  to  fall  in  love  in  Seville.  An 
observing  man  will  very  quickly  discard  the 
trappings  that  Figaro  has  left  for  amatory 
inheritance.  He  will  break  or  throw  away 
his  guitar,  and  instead  of  clinging  to  an  iron 
grille  during  the  rheumatic  hours  of  night, 
he  will  buy  himself  a  pair  of  tight  boots  with 
French  heels,  get  *' new  legs  and  lame  ones,'* 
and  spring-halt  it  up  and  down  the  paseo  un- 
til his  fancy  alights.  Then  the  very  next 
step  he  will  take  —  not  a  halt  one,  let  us  hope 
—  will  be  to  inquire  out  her  tertulia,  and  gain 
admittance  to  it.  After  that  the  course  of 
true  love  in  Spain  runs  in  a  channel  parallel 
to  that  of  other  countries.  To-day,  in  Se- 
ville, Figaro  is  a  barber,  pure  and  simple. 

Most  of  the  cadets  and  a  few  of  the  younger 
officers,  frequented  the  pasteleria  of  Juan 
Pulin,  that  foreigners  call  the  Cafe  Suizo,  and 
there,  over  chocolate  and  pastas-secas^  or  the 
famous  little  rolls  of  Alcala,  we  sat  many 
long  evenings  that  seem  monotonous  in  ret- 
rospect.    They  were  not  so  really,  for  each 


30 


IN    SEVILLE. 


of  US  exerted  himself  to  talk  louder  and  faster 
than  the  others,   and  our  combined   lungs 
blew  up  a  wind  of  interest  that  sent  the  con- 
versation craft  dancing  merrily  between  the 
ports  of  dinner  and  bed.     What  we  talked 
about   was  of   no  consequence ;   it  was  the 
noise  we  made  in  talking.      Everything  else 
in  these  meetings  was  fictitious ;  our  pleas- 
ure  was  make-believe,  our  excitement  pre- 
tense ;  only  the  noise  was  genuine,  and  very 
characteristic.     Though  it  is  a   proverb  of 
Spanish   officers  that  they  spend  the  time  off 
duty  in  sleep  or  play,  1  .do   not  remember 
that   I  ever   heard  our  friends  call  for  the 
cards.     They  exhibited  their  proficiency  by 
telling   stories  of  exciting  games,  in  which 
they  had  participated,  and  lost,  or  won  pro- 
digious sums. 

When  the  clock  struck  eleven  we  were  in 
the  habit  of  separating,  but  on  certain  nights 
we  left  the  pasteleriaat  that  hour  to  enter  on 
the  real  business  of  the  evenmg.  This  began 
by  constituting  ourselves  into  a  body  of  special 
police,  charged  with  the  extraordinary  pro- 
tection of  the  corregidor,  the  chief  of  the  mu- 
nicipal administration.  I  do  not  know  that 
he  was  in  danger  on  these  particular  nights, 
or  why,  if  our  business  respected  his  author- 
ity, we  so  carefully  avoided  the  regular 
watchmen.     These  were  points  too  fine  for  a 


> 


k 


IN    SEVILLE. 


31 


foreign  understanding,  but  we  comprehended 
at  least,  that  the  expedition  was  harmless.  It 
was  quite  different  with  the  majos  born  on 
the  soil.  They  believed  themselves  beset 
with  deadly  perils,  and  their  spirits  rose  in 
proportion  as  the  pretence  gathered  reality 
from  eyeless  night.  In  and  out  of  dark,  lit- 
tle streets,  avoiding  the  lamps  at  the  corners, 
clustering  and  muttering  in  doorways,  under 
porches  and  balconies,  we  stole  from  shade  to 
shade  like  a  band  of  Spanish  Sioux.  After 
an  hour  or  two  of  this  exciting  chase  after 
our  own  shadows,  we  would  gravely  march 
to  the  Nueva^  whence  the  rest  would  accom- 
pany us,  hasta  el  rincon,  to  the  corner  of  our 
street,  shake  hands  in  turn  and  vanish. 

At  the  inauguration  of  each  midnight  stroll 
we  hoped  it  would  develop  an  adventure, 
but  it  never  did,  and  when  we  went  home  I 
laughed  at  my  heart  for  having  beat  a  little 
faster  at  the  setting-forth.  But  laugh  as  I 
might  when  safe  in  bed,  I  never  failed  to 
dream  of  Pedro  the  Cruel,  and  his  bloody 
rambles.  One,  in  particular,  haunted  my  pil- 
low, for  no  better  reason  than  that  my  own 
hand  filled  in  the  meagre  outline  furnished  by 
the  Annals  of  Seville,  The  compiler  of  that 
book  gives  in  a  few  words  the  tradition  to 
which  a  street  of  Seville,  called  Candilejo, 
owes  its  name.     Walking  there   one  night. 


1^ 


< 


32 


IN    SEVILLE. 


Pedro  quarrelled  with  a  man  who  was  sere- 
nading beneath  a  window.  Th-ey  fought,  and 
the  king  killed  the  amorous  cavalier  without 
witnesses,  except  an  old  woman,  who  stuck 
her  head  out  of  a  window  and  lighted  up  the 
tragedy  with  a  little  lamp,  candilejo,  that  she 
held  in  her  hand. 

This  is  treating  carelessly  a  scene  which 
promises  so  much.  Indeed,  it  ought  to  run 
like  this  :  It  is  night ;  the  city  sleeps.  Enter 
Don  Gomez  (why  conceal  the  name  of  a  man 
who  is  soon  to  die  ?).  He  advances  a  few 
steps.  "  Tis  here  ;  behold  the  house  !  She  is 
behind  that  jalousie  !  " 

With  nervous  steps  Don  Gomez  crosses  the 
street,  places  himself  under  the  window, 
takes  his  guitar,  and  begins  to  sing  a  romance 
that  deals  with  tears,  sighs  and  all  that  fol- 
lows. As  the  poetry  is  a  little  worse  than 
usual,  it  is  probably  his  own  composition. 

At  the  third  or  fourth  seguidilla  the  blinds 
rustle  gently,  and  a  faint  cough  reaches  Don 
Gomez.  That  tells  him  she  is  listening.  Hav- 
ing attained  his  end,  Don  Gomez  casts  aside 
the  guitar  and  enters  into  a  low-voiced  con- 
versation with  the  unseen  lady.  Don  Gomez 
is  full  of  words.  He  knows  by  heart  all  the 
Moresque  romances,  of  which  the  Andalusian 
tongue  is  so  rich.  He  is  eloquent  and  mu- 
sical.   The  conversation  proceeds  like  a  song, 


i 


IN    SEVILLE. 


33 


when  suddenly  there  falls  a  note  of  discord. 
Yet  to  call  it  so  is  paradoxical,  for  the  note 
comes  from  another  guitar.  The  startled  lov- 
ers see  a  man  crossing  the  street,  wrapped  in 
a  mantle.     He  twangs  the  opening  chord. 

**  Oh,  heaven  !  "  cries  the  maiden.  **  It  is 
your  rival ;  it  is  Don  Ruiz  who  is  coming  to 
serenade  me.  Fly,  for  the  love  you  bear  me, 
lest  some  misfortune  happen  to  you." 

**Fly?  Never!"  cries  Don  Gomez.  "I 
should  be  unworthy  of  you  if  I  could  run 
away,"  and,  raising  his  voice  :  "  Cavalier*  " 
he  exclaimed  to  the  man  who  continues  to 
advance,  '*  the  place  is  taken  and  this  lady 
does  not  appreciate  your  music.  So,  if  it 
pleases  you,  seek  your  happiness  else- 
where." 

"  Who  dares  advise  me  ?  "  cries  the  new 
comer.  "  Rash  youth,  retire  and  yield  the 
place ! " 

''I  will  not  yield  to  any  man,"  cries  Don 
Gomez. 

*'  Not  even  to "  mutters  the  other,  with- 
out completing  his  sentence,  except  to  drop 
his  mantle  and  reveal  his  face. 

Don  Gomez  recoils  a  pace  ;  nevertheless, 
he  repeats  stoutly  :  *•  Not  even  to  my  king !  " 

Enough  had  been  said,  and  the  swords 
were  out.  The  king  was  adroit,  and  besides 
he  had  in  his  left  hand  an  iron  shield,  behind 


34 


IN    SEVILLE. 


which  he  sheltered  his  body,  while  Don 
Gomez  had  only  his  sword  and  mantle.  He 
defended  himself  with  grace,  and  tried  all  the 
expedients  known  to  good  swordsmen  to 
force  his  opponent's  guard.  At  one  moment 
it  seemed  as  if  he  would  succeed  in  gliding 
his  sword  underneath  the  king's  shield,  but 
the  heavy  iron  came  down  and  dashed  his 
weapon  to  the  ground,  while  Pedro's  sword 
penetrated  his  side  with  such  force  that  the 
point  broke  after  entering  a  hand's  length. 
Don  Gomez  uttered  a  groan  and  fell  bathed 
in  his  blood. 

At  that  moment  the  watch  was  heard  ap- 
proaching. The  king  rose,  threw  aside  the 
sword,  picked  up  the  guitar,  and  spurning 
his  victim  from  the  path  with  the  words, 
"  So  perish  all  who  cross  my  love  !  "  he  made 
off  in  the  opposite  direction. 

And  the  lady  ?  It  is  not  certain  there  was 
any  lady  concerned  ;  the  Annals  of  Seville 
mention  an  old  woman  merely.  It  is  curious 
to  note  that  in  my  dreams  it  was  always  the 
old  woman  who  came.  At  first  I  paid  her 
no  particular  attention,  for,  when  the  dream 
began  haunting,  I  took  an  active  part,  alter- 
nately  playing  the  bloody  Pedro  and  the  ill- 
starred  lover.  But  as  time  went  on  and  our 
nocturnal  strolls  remained  nocturnal  strolls 
and  nothing  more,  I  grew  less  and  less  able 


IN    SEVILLE. 


iS 


to  play  a  leading  role^  and  since  it  seemed 
equally  impossible  to  retire  from  the  stage 
altogether,  the  night  finally  fell  when  I  acted 
the  old  woman  holding  up  the  little  lamp. 


IV. 

BUT  Pedro  is  not  the  glory  of  Seville. 
Not  even  a  city  which  has  no  military 
history  would  exalt  a  coward  to  this  place,. 
and  the  large  class  of  Sevillians— and  other 
people — that  can  respect  a  man  who-  offsets 
turpitude  with  audacity,  turn  from  Don 
Pedro  to  Don  Juan  when  they  crown  the 
hero  of  Seville.  But  lived  there  ever  a  man 
who  deserved  to  be  called  Don  Juan,  with 
all  that  name  now  implies? 

Or  is  Don  Juan  a  myth  ?  Call  him  so  if 
you  wish  to  throw  dirt  on  the  city  of  Seville, 
but  do  it  from  the  plain  outside  her  walls, 
for  if  you  once  go  within,  you  will  remain  to 
believe.  The  people  can  show  you  the  monu- 
ments of  not  one  merely,  but  two  Don  Juans. 
They  can  point  out  the  houses  where  they 
lived  and  where  they  died ;  they  can  carry 
you  to  the  graves  of  both.  How  can  you 
scoff  after  that  ? 

Seville  has  two  Juans  in  her  legends,  be- 
cause it  is  impossible  to  fit  them  all  to  one 


36 


IN    SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


37 


man.  Rejecting  the  grossest  anachronisms^ 
one  has  left  a  vast  quantity  of  material  out  ot 
which  to  construct  two  such  superior  beings; 
Don  Juan  Tenorio  and  Don  Juan  de  Manara. 
The  common  people  regard  them  as  one  per- 
son, but  the  guides,  in  the  interest  of  trade, 
preserve  a  distinction.  They  show  you  the 
house  of  Tenorio,  now  the  property  of  the 
nuns  of  San  Leandro,  and  they  cause  you  to 
read  in  la  Caridad  the  ostentatiously  humble 
inscription  on  the  tomb  of  Manara :  ''Here  are 
the  ashes  of  the  wickedest  man  in  the  world." 
The  guides  then  cease  to  make  fine  dis- 
tinctions, and  relate  stories  which  may  belong 
to  one  or  the  other — you  may  take  your 
choice — of  how  Don  Juan  made  strange 
propositions  to  La  Giralda,  the  bronze  statue 
that  surmounts  the  Moresque  tower  of  the 
Cathedral,  and  how  La  Giralda  accepted 
them ;  how  Don  Juan,  walking  warm  with 
wine,  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Guadalquivir, 
demanded  a  light  of  a  man  smoking  a  cigar 
on  the  right  bank  ;  how  the  smoker,  who  was 
no  other  than  the  devil  in  person,  extended 
his  arm  farther  and  farther,  until  it  stretched 
across  the  river,  and  presented  his  weed  to 
Don  Juan,  and  how  that  mauvais  sujet,  after 
lighting  his  own  cigar,  returned  His  Maj- 
esty's, with  a  careless  "  Thank  you,"  and 
passed  on. 


I 


Many  tales  are  related  of  the  childhood 
and  youth  of  Don  Juan  de  Manara  (these 
M.  de  Latour  has  agreeably  collated),  while 
of  Tenorio,  at  a  tender  age,  whom  it  is  easy 
to  suspect  for  that  reason,  of  being  a  common 
plagiarist,  legend  is  dumb. 

The  charm  of  these  stories  consists  in  their 
fidelity  to  nature  and  to  the  epoch.  They 
form  a  solid  foundation  capable  of  support- 
ing a  complicated  structure  in  the  style  of 
the  Arabesque.  Out  of  them  the  genius  of 
Prosper  Merimee  constructed  his  famous 
story,  which  is  condensed  in  the  following 
narrative : 

Don  Juan,  so  called,  although  he  had  been 
christened  Manuel,  was  born  at  Seville, 
about  the  year  1622.  This  makes  him  by 
four  years  the  junior  of  Murillo.  whom  he 
afterwards  employed  to  embellish  his  chapel 
of  repentance.  He  was  the  son  who  arrived 
late  to  delight  the  heart  of  a  hero  of  the 
Moorish  wars,  Don  Carlos  de  Manara. 

Spoiled  by  father  and  mother,  as  became 
the  sole  heir  of  a  famous  name  and  a  great 
fortune,  Don  Juan,  from  infancy,  was  abso- 
lute master  of  his  own  actions.  In  his  father's 
palace  no  one  had  the  hardihood  to  correct 
him.  The  parents,  indeed,  took  some  pains 
to  educate  him,  but  their  methods  were  con- 
flicting. 


38 


IN    SEVILLE. 


The  mother  wished  her  son  to  be  devout, 
like  herself,  and  by  caressing  him  and  stuff- 
ing him  with  sweets,  she  persuaded  the  child 
to  learn  litanies,  rosaries,  and,  in  fact,  all 
the  obligatory  and  non-obligatory  praj^ers. 
On  his  part,  the  father  taught  Don  Juan 
the  romances  of  the  Cid  and  Bernardo  del 
Carpio ;  related  to  him  the  revolt  of  the 
Moors  and  encouraged  him  to  exercise  him- 
self all  day  hurling  the  javeline,  firing  the 
cross-bow,  or  even  the  arquebus  at  a  manna- 
kin  dressed  like  a  Moor,  which  he  had  set  up 
in  his  garden. 

The  same  diversity  appeared  in  the  fur- 
nishing each  gave  Don  Juan  when  at  his 
eighteenth  year  they  sent  him  to  school,  at 
Salamanca.  His  mother  gave  him  chaplets, 
scapularies  and  blessed  medals.  Don  Carlos 
gave  him  a  sword  with  a  hilt  damaskeened 
in  silver  and  engraved  with  the  arms  of  his 
family.  The  event  proved  the  superior  use- 
fulness of  his  father's  gift.  Salamanca  at 
that  period  resembled,  it  should  seem,  a 
camp  full  of  swaggering  soldiers,  rather  than 
a  peaceful  university,  presided  over  by 
learned  priests.  As  for  the  unhappy  city 
which  gave  its  name  to  the  institution, 
it  was  absolutely  dominated  by  the  insolent 
and  undisciplined  students.  By  day  they 
ran  from  shop  to  shop,  seizing  whatever  took 


IN    SEVILLE. 


39 


N 


their  fancy  and  making  a  promise  to  pay 
which  was  rarely  kept,  and  by  night  their 
serenades,  chari varies,  abductions,  robberies 
and  duels  prevented  the  citizens  from  sleep- 
ing, except  in  cat-naps. 

At  first  it  seemed  likely  that  his  mother  s 
teaching  would  influence  Don  Juan.  Upon 
arriving  at  Salamanca,  he  went  to  all  the 
churches,  and  asked  the  guardians  to  show 
him  the  sacred  relics. 

Unfortunately  for  religion,  it  was  in  one  of 
the  holy  edifices  that  he  met  the  leader  of 
the  wild  set  who  ruled  the  city. 

The  name  of  the  student  was  Don  Garcia 
Navarro,  with  the  qualification  "  of  the  short 
patience  and  the  long  sword."  An  edifying 
figure  was  Don  Garcia  when  Juan  first  saw 
him.  He  was  kneeling  before  a  chapel,  in 
the  midst  of  a  circle  of  the  faithful.  Don 
Juan  had  made  his  prayer,  and  about  to  rise 
from  his  kn^es,  when  he  perceived  that  his 
neighbor,  a  handsome,  well  made  youth,  who 
had  been  there  when  he  came,  still  appeared 
to  be  plunged  in  a  devout  ecstacy.  A  little 
ashamed  of  having  ended  so  soon,  Don  Juan 
began  to  recite  as  many  litanies  as  he  could 
remember.  His  mother  had  taken  care  that 
they  should  be  numerous,  and  Don  Juan  oc- 
cupied considerable  time  in  dispatching  them. 
But  his  pious  neighbor  had  not  budged. 


40 


IN    SEVILLE. 


Weary  of  emulating  this  endless  orison, 
the  young  Count  was  preparing  to  move  off, 
when  the  devout  caught  him  by  the  cloak, 
and  whispered,  with  his  eyes  still  cast  down, 
"Senor  student,  you  are  a  new  comer 
amongst  us,  but  your  name  is  well  known  to 
me.  Our  fathers  once  were  good  friends, 
and,  if  you  permit,  their  sons  will  not  be 
less." 

A  few  words  sufficed  to  introduce  the 
young  men  to  each  other.  Don  Juan  was 
fascinated  by  the  other's  politeness,  and  felt 
all  the  more  drawn  to  Don  Garcia  when  that 
young  gentleman,  without  wasting  time,  di- 
rected him  to  look  towards  three  women  who 
knelt  apart  on  a  strip  of  Turkey  carpet.  One 
ol  them,  gray  haired  and  wrinkled,  could  be 
no  other  than  a  duenna.  The  other  two 
were  young  and  pretty,  and  did  not  keep 
their  gaze  so  low  on  their  beads  that  Juan 
could  not  see  how  black  their  eyes  were,  how 
soft  and  yet  how  lively. 

*'  Do  you  see  the  senorita,  with  a  chaplet 
of  yellow  amber?  "  muttered  Don  Garcia,  as 
if  still  at  his  prayers. 

"That  is  Dona  Teresa  de  Ojeda;  the 
other  is  her  elder  sister,  Dona  Fausta. 
They  are  the  daughters  of  an  auditor  of  the 
Council  of  Castile.  I  am  making  up  to  the 
elder;   do  you  try  your  luck  with  Teresa. 


I   V 


IN    SEVILLE. 


41 


Come,*'  he  added,  "  they  are  rising  and  going 
out  of  church.  Let  us  hasten  in  order  to  see 
them  mount  into  the  carriage.  Perhaps  the 
wind  may  raise  their  basquinas  and  show  us 
a  pretty  leg  or  two." 

Such  was  Don  Juan's  meeting  with  Don 
Garcia  and  with  Teresa,  both  of  whom  were 
intimately   connected    with    the   succeeding 
events  of  his  life.     Don  Garcia  found  Juan 
an  apt  pupil,  and  the  two  young  men,  after  a 
month's   serenading  under   the    window   of 
their  mistresses,  succeeded   in   obtaining  a 
rendezvous  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Tormes. 
Dona   Teresa  took    Don   Juan's    hand    and 
Dona  Fausta  that  of  Garcia.     As  long  as  the 
sisters  could  remain,  the  two  couples  prom- 
enaded and  then  separated  with  the  promise 
not  to  let  escape  a  single  opportunity  of  see- 
ing each  other.     And  they  kept  their  word 
so  well  that  before  Don  Juan  had  sojourned 
three    months  at    Salamanca    poor    Teresa 
had   given  him   indubitable   proofs  of  love. 
Don   Garcia    had  the  same    gift    from    her 
sister. 

At  first  Don  Juan  loved  his  mistress  with 
the  feverish  passion  of  a  youth  for  the  first 
woman  who  gives  herself  to  him,  but  Don 
Garcia  demonstrated  that  constancy  was  a 
common-place  virtue,  and  at  last  the  two 
students  agreed  so  well  on  this  point   that 


( 


42 


IN    SEVILLE. 


one  evening  they  sat  down  to  play,  having 
their  mistresses  for  the  stakes.  Garcia  wa- 
gered Dona  Fausta;  Teresa  was  Juan's 
wager.     Don  Juan  won. 

Accordingly  he  ordered  Don  Garcia  to 
draw  a  note  of  hand  on  Dona  Fausta,  enjoin- 
ing her  to  put  herself  at  the  bearer's  dis- 
position, exactly  as  he  might  have  ordered 
his  banker  to  pay  a  hundred  ducats  to  one 
of  his  creditors.  This  order  Juan  pre- 
sented to  Dona  Fausta  the  same  night,  not 
without  trepidation.  She  read  it  quickly, 
and  at  first  did  not  comprehend  what  it 
meant.  She  read  it  again,  and  could  not 
believe  her  eyes.  Don  Juan  watched  her 
closely.  Fausta  wiped  her  forehead,  rubbed 
her  eyes;  her  lips  trembled,  a  mortal  pallor 
spread  over  her  visage,  and  she  was  obliged 
to  clutch  the  paper  with  both  hands  to  keep 
from  dropping  it.  Finally,  commanding  her- 
self by  a  desperate  effort,  she  cried : 

"  All  this  is  false !  It  is  a  horrible  lie ! 
Don  Garcia  never  wrote  it !  *' 

Don  Juan  replied  : 

'*  You   know   his   writing.     He   does   not 
appreciate  the  treasure  he  possesses,  but  I  - 
I  accepted,  because  I  adore  you." 

She  threw  him  a  glance  of  profound  con- 
tempt and  reperused  the  paper.  From  time 
to  time  a  great  tear  escaped  and  glided,  un- 


IN    SEVILLE. 


43 


noticed,  down  her  cheek.  Then  she  smiled 
wildly  and  exclaimed : 

"  It  is  a  jest;  is  it  not?  Don  Garcia  is  out- 
side ;  he  is  going  to  come  in  ?** 

"  It  is  no  jest,  Dona  Fausta,  I  swear  by  the 
love  I  bear  you.  I  shall  be  very  unhappy  if 
you  will  not  believe  me." 

**  Teresa — my  sister  !  "  gasped  Fausta. 

"  1  never  loved  her."     Don  Juan  replied. 

**  Wretch  !  "  she  cried  **  if  what  you  tell  me 
is  true,  you  are  a  greater  villain  than  Don 
Garcia." 

"  Love  pardons  all,  beautiful  Faustita.  Don 
Garcia  abandons  you ;  he  is  your  false  The- 
seus ;  let  me  be  your  Bacchus." 

Without  a  word  she  seized  a  knife  from 
the  table  and  advanced  menacing  Don  Juan. 
He  had  seen  the  movement,  caught  her  hand 
and  disarmed  her.  Fausta  had  recourse  to 
screams.    She  filled  the  house  with  her  cries. 

Don  Juan  now  thought  but  of  escape.  He 
tried  to  gain  the  door,  but  Fausta  interposed. 
She  was  bent  on  punishing  him.  And  now 
alarming  noises  began  to  be  heard;  slamming 
doors,  rushing  feet  and  voices  of  men.  Don 
Juan  had  not  an  instant  to  loose.  He  made 
an  effort  to  hurl  Dona  Fausta  far  from  him, 
but  she  had  seized  his  arm  with  a  grasp  im- 
possible to  shake  off.  She  redoubled  her  cries. 
At  that  instant  the  door  was  thrown  open  and 


1 


44 


IN    SEVILLE. 


a  man  holding  an  arquebus  appeared  on  the 
threshold.  He  uttered  an  imprecation  and 
fired.  The  lamp  went  out  and  Don  Juan  felt 
Fausta's  grasp  relax  while  something  warm 
and  liquid  bathed  his  hands.  Fausta  fell  or 
rather  glided  to  the  floor.  Don  Alonzo  had 
killed  his  daughter  instead  of  her  ravisher. 
Under coverof  thesmoke  from  the  arquebus 
Don  Juan  leaped  towards  the  staircase.  In 
the  hall  he  received  a  blow  from  the  father's 
weapon  and  a  sword  cut  from  a  lackey. 
Neither  injured  him  much.  Sword  in  hand 
he  sought  to  extinguish  the  fiambeau  the  lack- 
ey carried  and  cut  a  passage  out.  The  ser- 
vant rapidly  gave  way  ;  not  so  Alonzo  de 
Ojeda,  a  man  ardent  and  intrepid  in  spite  of  his 
years.  He  precipitated  himself  on  Don  Juan 
and  thrust  at  him  with  his  sword.  Don  Juan 
•parried  several  strokes  and  no  doubt  he  sought 
only  to  defend  himself,  but  his  skill  was  great, 
and  soon  Fausta's  father  heaved  a  great  sigh 
and  fell  mortally  wounded.  Don  Juan  darted 
down  the  staircase  and  into  the  street  with- 
out being  pursued  by  the  domestics,  who  had 
gathered  round  their  expiring  master.  But 
he  did  not  escape  without  being  recognized 
by  Teresa.  Roused  by  the  noise  of  the  arque 
bus,  she  had  arrived  in  time  to  witness  the 
duel  between  Don  Juan  and  Don  Alonzo,  and 
she  had  fallen  senseless  beside  her  father's 


IN    SEVILLE. 


45 


body.     The  wretched  girl  knew  but  the  half 
of  her  unhappiness. 

Don  Juan  was  justified  in  thinking  there 
was  nothing  to  detain  him  longer  in  Sala- 
manca. He  determined  to  abandon  Minerva 
for  Mars.  "To  Flanders!"  he  cried;  "to 
the  wars  in  Flanders  I  I  will  go  to  kill  here- 
tics. In  that  way  and  quickly  I  shall  bury 
my  peccadilloes."  He  promptly  put  off  his 
student  habit  never  to  be  resumed.  In  its 
stead  he  put  on  an  embroidered  leather  vest 
such  as  was  worn  at  that  time  bv  the  soldiers, 
a  great  splash  hat,  and  he  did  not  forget  to  line 
his  belt  with  as  many  doubloons  as  he  could 
borrow.  Then  he  took  the  road  on  foot,  left 
the  city  without  being  recognized  and 
marched  all  night  and  all  the  following  morn- 
ing, till  the  heat  of  the  sun  obliged  him  to  give 
over. 

At  the  first  village  he  bought  a  horse  and 
joining  a  caravan  of  merchants,  he  safely 
reached  Saragossa.  Here  he  rested  only  long 
enough  to  pay  his  devotions  to  Our  Lady  of 
the  Pillar,  to  ogle  the  Arragonese  beauties 
and  provide  himself  with  a  domestic.  Then 
he  made  his  way  to  Barcelona,  where  he  em- 
barked for  Civita  Vecchia.  Fatigue,  sea-sick- 
ness, new  faces  and  the  natural  lightness  of 
Juan's  mind,  all  united  to  make  him  forget 
the  horrible  scene  he  had  left  behind.     In 


46 


IN    SEVILLE. 


enjoying  the  pleasures  of  Italy,  he  neglected 
for  some  months  the  principal  end  of  his  voy- 
age, but  funds  commenced  to  fail  him,  and  he 
joined  a  party  of  compatriots,  brave  and  light 
of  purse  like  himself,  and  they  took  the  route 
for  Germany. 

Arrived  at  Brussels  Don  Juan  entered  the 
company  of  an  Andalusian  captain,  who, 
charmed  with  his  graceful  air,  treated  him 
well  and  according  to  his  taste,  that  is  to  say, 
he  employed  him  on  all  perilous  occasions. 
Fortune  favored  Don  Juan,  and  on  the  day  he 
won  an  ensign,  he  avowed  his  true  name  and 
recommenced  his  former  life.  He  passed  his 
days  drinking  and  his  nights  serenading  the 
prettiest  women  of  Brussels.  He  had  received 
pardon  from  his  parents  and  letters  of  credit 
on  some  bankers  of  Antwerp.  He  put  the 
latter  to  good  use.  Young,  rich,  brave  and 
handsome,  his  conquests  were  numerous  and 
rapid.  Nothing  would  be  gained  by  recount- 
ing them  in  detail ;  it  should  suffice  the  reader 
to  know  that  when  he  saw  a  pretty  woman 
all  means  to  obtain  her  seemed  good  in  the 
eyes  of  Don  Juan.  Promises,  oaths  and  vows 
were  the  jests  of  this  unworthy  libertine,  and 
if  brother  or  husband  called  him  to  account 
for  his  conduct,  he  had  wherewithal  to  re- 
spond to  them— a  good  sword  and  a  pitiless 
heart.     After  a  single  campaign  his  compan- 


IN    SEVILLE. 


47 


ions  were  wont  to  refer  to  Don  Juan  as  the 
youngster  **  who  had  put  more  men  to  death 
and  more  women  to  worse  than  death,  than 
two  Cordeliers  or  two  bravos  of  Valence.** 

In  the  midst  of  this  debauchery  the  news 
came  that  his  mother  and  father  were  dead. 
His  seniors  advised  him  to  return  to  Spain 
and  take  possession  of  his  majority  and  the 
vast  wealth  he  had  inherited.  This  advice 
accorded  with  Don  Juan's  own  wish.  Long 
since  he  had  obtained  grace  for  the  murder 
of  Teresa's  father,  Don  Alonzo  de  Ojeda,  and 
he  regarded  that  affair  as  entirely  forgotten. 
Above  all,  he  had  a  strong  desire  to  exercise 
his  peculiar  talents  on  a  larger  theatre.  He 
rolled  on  his  mind  the  delights  of  Seville,  and 
the  numerous  fair  women  who  were  only 
waiting  his  return,  doubtless,  to  abandon  dis- 
cretion. So  doffing  the  cuirass,  he  set  out  for 
Spain.  At  Madrid  he  broke  his  journey,  had 
himself  remarked  at  a  bull-fight  for  the  ex- 
traordinary richness  of  his  costume  and  made 
some  conquests,  but  he  did  not  remain  long 
there.  He  hurried  on  to  Seville,  where  he  had 
no  sooner  arrived  than  he  astonished  little  and 
great  by  his  ostentation  and  magnificence. 

Every  day  he  gave  a  feast  to  which  he  in- 
vited the  most  beautiful  ladies  of  Andalusia. 
Each  day  saw  new  pleasures,  new  extravagan- 
ces, new  orgies  organized  in  his  family  palace. 


»^ 


48 


IN    SEVILLE. 


He  became  king  of  a  crowd  of  libertines  who 
obeyed  him  with  a  docility   like  that  often 
found  in  the  associations  of  criminals.  There 
was  no  debauch  in  which  Don  Juan  feared  to 
plunge,  and  as  a  vicious  rich  man  cannot  be 
dangerous  to  himself  alone,  his  example  per- 
verted the  Andalusian  youth  who  took  him 
for  their  model.     An  illness  which  kept  Don 
Juan  in  bed  for  a  few  days  failed  to  inspire 
him  with  repentance.     He  merely  command- 
ed his  doctor  to  restore  him  to  health  for  the 
avowed  purpose  of  running  into  new  excesses. 
During  his  convalescence,  Don  Juan  amused 
himself  by  drawing  up  a  list  of  all  the  women 
he  had  conquered  and  all   the  husbands  he 
had  deceived.    He  divided  the  list  methodic- 
ally into  two  columns.     In  one  he  wrote  the 
names  of  the  women  and  their  summarv:  in 
the  other  the  names  of  the  husbands  and  their 
professions.  He  had  much  trouble  to  remem- 
ber the  names  of  his  victims  and  he  regretted 
that  the  catologue  was  far  from  being  perfect. 
One  day  Juan  showed  this  list  to  a  friend  who 
was  visiting  him;  and  as  in  Italy  he  had  en- 
joyed the  favor  of  a  woman  who  boasted  of 
being  the  mistress  of  a  pope,  the  list  com- 
menced with  her  name,  while  that  of  the  pope 
headed  the  column  of  husbands.     Then  came 
a  reigning  prince,  then  dukes,  marquises  and 
so  on  down  even  to  artisans. 


\ 


f 


I 


ii 


! 


IN    SEVILLE. 


49 


"Nobody  has  escaped  me!"  cried  Don 
Juan;  "from  a  pope  to  a  shoemaker.  Not 
one  class  of  society  but  has  furnished  its 
quota." 

His  friend  examined  the  catalogue  and  re- 
turned it,  saying  in  a  triumphant  tone  : 

**  It  is  not  complete !" 

"  How  !  Not  complete  ?  Who  is  wanting 
in  my  list  of  husbands?" 

"  God,''  said  the  other. 

"  God  ?  It  is  true,  there  is  no  nun  here.  I 
thank  you  for  showing  me  where  it  lacked. 
Ah,  well !  I  swear  to  you  on  my  honor  as  a 
gentleman — in  what  convent  of  Seville  are 
there  pretty  nuns  ?" 

A  few  days  later  Don  Juan  was  in  the 
country.  He  began  to  frequent  the  convents 
in  the  vicinity  of  Seville.  Kneeling  very 
close  to  the  lattice  which  separated  the 
brides  of  the  Savior  from  the  rest  of  the  faith- 
ful, he  threw  ferocious  glances  on  the  timid 
virgins,  like  a  wolf  in  a  sheep-fold  who  seeks 
for  the  plumpest  lamb  to  devour  it  first.  He 
soon  remarked,  in  the  church  of  Our  Lady 
of  the  Rosary,'  a  young  nun  of  ravishing 
beauty,  which  was  rendered  more  noticeable 
by  an  air  of  melancholy  like  a  thin  veil  drawn 
over  every  feature.  She  never  raised  her 
eyes  nor  turned  them  to  the  left  or  right.  She 
seemed  entirely  absorbed  in  the  divine  mystery 


50 


IN    SEVILLE. 


delebrated  before  her.  Her  lips  moved  quickly 
and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  prayed  with 
more  fervor  and  unction  than  her  compan- 
ions. The  sight  of  her  recalled  to  Don  Juan 
old  memories.  It  seemed  to  him  he  had  seen 
this  woman  somewhere,  but  it  w  as  impossi- 
ble to  recall  time  or  place.  So  many  por~ 
traits  were  engraved  more  or  less  deeply  on 
his  memory  that  confusion  was  a  necessity. 
Day  after  day  he  returned  to  the  church  and 
took  the  same  place  near  the  lattice  without 
succeeding  in  making  Sister  Agatha  raise  her 
eyes.  This  he  had  learned  was  the  younof 
nun's  spiritual  name.  But  the  difficulty  of 
triumphing  over  a  person  so  well  guarded  by 
her  position  and  by  her  modesty,  only  served 
to  inflame  the  desires  of  Don  Juan.  His  van-^ 
ity  persuaded  him  that  if  he  could  find  a  way 
to  draw  Sister  Agatha's  eyes  upcfn  him,  the 
victory  would  be  half  gained.  This  is  the 
expedient  by  which  he  attracted  her  atten-v 
tion.  One  day  he  placed  himself  as  near  her 
.  as  possible,  and,  profiting  by  the  moment  of 
the  elevation  of  the  Host  when  every  body 
was  prostrate,  he  passed  his  hand  between 
the  bars  of  the  lattice  and  emptied  before 
Sister  Agatha  the  contents  of  a  vial  of  per- 
fume.  The  pentrating  odor  which  suddenly 
enveloped  her  constrained  the  young  nun  to 
raise  her  head.   As  Don  Juan  had  placed  him- 


' 


IN    SEVILLE. 


SI 


self  directly  in  fron<-  of  her  she  could  not  fail 
to  see  him.  At  first  a  wild  astonishment 
pictured  itself  on  her  features ;  then  she  grew 
deathly  pale ;  she  uttered  a  feeble  cry  and 
fell  fainting  on  the  flags.  Her  companions 
pressed  around  her  and  bore  her  to  her  cell. 
Don  Juan,  retiring  very  much  pleased  with 
himself,  thought :  ''  This  nun  is  truly  charm- 
ing, but  the  oftener  I  see  her,  the  more  1 
am  convinced  that  she  already  figures  in 
my  catalogue." 

Next  day  at  church,  a  note  was  handed  ta 
him.  1 1  read  :  **  Is  it  you,  Don  Juan  ?  Is  it 
true  that  you  have  not  forgotten  me?  I  have 
been  very  unhappy,  but  1  was  growing  recon- 
ciled to  my  fate.  1  am  going  to  be  an  hundred 
times  more  unhappy  now.  I  ought  to  hate 
you,  you  who  spilled  the  blood  of  my  father, 
but  I  cannot  hate  you  or  forget  you.  Have 
pity  on  me.  Come  no  more  to  this  church ; 
you  do  me  too  much  harm.  Adieu,  adieu,  I 
am  dead  to  the  world.     Teresa." 

"Ah!  it  is  Teresita?"  exclaimed  Don  Juan 
when  he  had  read  it.  "  I  knew  I  had  seen  her 
somewhere." 

Whoever  has  read  so  far  in  this  edifying 
history  knows  its  hero  too  well  to  imagine 
that  he  obeyed  Teresa's  piteous  prayer  and 
refrained  from  his  pursuit.  He  went  the 
next  day  and  the  next,  and  so   often  to   the 


52 


IN    SEVILLE. 


church  that  Teresa's  last  feeble  resistance  of 
the  man  she   had  ever  tenderly  loved   was 
broken  dou^n.  At  the  end  of  some  days  she  had 
no  more  force  left  to  struggle.  She  announced 
to  Don  Juan  that  she  was  ready  for  all,  and,  at 
the  height  of  joy  he  prepared  for  her  escape. 
He  chose  a  moonless  night.  He  smuggled  into 
Teresa's  cell  a  silken  ladder  with  which  to 
scale  the  walls  of  the  convent.   A  package  con- 
taining a  street  costume   was   hidden   in  a 
corner  of  the  convent   garden.      Don  Juan 
himself  was  to  wait  for  her  at  the  foot  of  the 
wall.     At  some   distance  a  litter  drawn  by  ^ 
vigorous  mules  would  be  in  readiness  to  carry  * 
Teresa  rapidly  to  his  country  house.     Don 
Juan  neglected  nothing  that  could  insure  the 
success  of  the  abduction. 

The  chosen  night  came.  Don  Juan  gave 
the  necessary  orders  to  his  domestics  for 
Teresa  s  reception,  and  spt  out  alone  and  on 
foot  for  Seville  in  the  great  heat  of  the  day, 
so  that  he  would  not  arrive  there  before 
nightfall.  In  fact,  it  was  black  night  when 
he  passed  near  the  Torre  del  Oro,  where 
a  servant  awaited  him.  He  asked  if  the  litter 
and  mules  were  at  their  place.  All  was  ready. 
His  instructions  had  been  followed  to  the 
letter.  There  only  remained  an  hour  to 
elapse  before  giving  the  signal  agreed  upon 
with  Teresa.  Don  Juan  covered  himself  with 


I 


I 


IN    SEVILLE. 


53 


a  great  brown  mantle,  and  keeping  his  face 
concealed  so  as  not  to  be  recognized,  he 
entered  Seville  by  the  gate  of  Triana. 

Heat  and  fatigue  forced  him  to  sit  down  in 
a  deserted  street.  There  he  began  to  hum 
the  airs  that  came  into  his  head.  From  time 
to  time  he  consulted  his  watch,  and  saw  with 
chagrin  that  the  hands  advanced  slower  than 
his  impatience. 

Suddenly  a  solemn  and  lugubrious  music 
struck  upon  his  ear.  He  recognized  the 
chant  that  the  church  had  consecrated  to 
burials.  Soon  a  procession  turned  the  corner 
of  the  street  and  came  towards  him.  It 
advanced  slowly  and  gravely.  No  footfall 
sounded  on  the  pavement,  and  it  seemed  to 
Don  Juan  that  each  figure  glided  rather  than 
walked.  At  this  spectacle  Don  Juan  ex- 
perienced, at  first,  that  species  of  disgust  the 
idea  of  death  inspires  in  an  epicurean.  He 
rose  and  was  about  to  withdraw,  but  the 
great  number  of  penitents  and  f:he  pomp  of 
the  cortege  surprised  him  and  piqued  his 
curiosity.  As  the  procession  was  entering 
the  door  of  a  neighboring  church  Don  Juan 
caught  one  of  the  persons  who  carried  the 
candles  by  the  arm  and  asked  him  politely 
whom  they  were  burying.  The  penitent 
lifted  his  head  ;  his  face  was  pale  and  haggard 
like  that  of  a  man  but  just  risen  from  a  sick 


54 


IN    SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


55 


bed.     He  replied  in  a  sepulchral  voice :  "  It 
is  the  Count  Don  Juan  de  Manara." 

When  Juan  heard  his  own  name  pronounced, 
he  felt  the  hair  starting  on  his  head.  But  the 
instant  after  he  recovered  his  mocking  smile, 
and  followed  the  procession  into  the  church. 
The  funeral  chant  re-commenced,  accompa- 
nied by  the  roll  of  the  organ,  and  the  priests 
began  to  intone  the  de  profimdis.  Despite  his 
•efforts  to  appear  calm,  Don  Juan  felt  his  blood 
congealing.  He  approached  another  penitent 
and  demanded : 

**  Who  is  the  dead  man  whom  they  are 
burying  ?  " 

''  The  Count  Don  Juan  de  Maiiara,"  replied 
the  penitent,  in  a  voice  hoarse  and  ominous. 
Don  Juan  seized  a  pillar  to  keep  from  falling. 
Finally  he  made  a  grand  effort,  and  caught 
the  hand  of  a  priest  who  passed  near  him. 
This  hand  was  cold  like  marble. 

"  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  my  father,"  cried 
he,  "who  are  you,  and  for  whom  are  you 
praying?" 

"  We  pray  for  the  soul  of  Count  Don  Juan 
de  Manara,"  responded  the  priest,  fixing  him 
with  a  dolorous  look. 

At  this  moment  the  church  clock  sounded. 
It  was  the  hour  fixed  for  Teresa's  abduction. 

"  The  name,  the  name  again  !  "  gasped  Don 
Juan.     The  priest  replied  still  more  sadly; 


iB.-« 


"  The  Count  Don  Juan  de  Mafiara." 

"  Jesu  !  "  cried  Don  Juan,  and  fell  senseless 
on  the  pavement. 

Night  was  far  advanced  when  the  watch 
passing  perceived  the  body  of  a  man  stretched 
across  the  portal  of  the  church.  The  archers 
lifted  him  up,  supposing  it  was  the  corpse  of 
an  assassinated  man. 

They  soon  recognized  the  Count  de  Mafiara, 
and  they  threw  cold  water  in  his  face  and 
sought  to  re-animate  him,  but  seeing  that  he 
did  not  recover,  they  bore  him  to  his  house. 
Some  said  he  was  drunk,  others  that  he  had 
received  a  jealous  husband's  blows.  No  one, 
or,  at  least,  no  honest  man  in  Seville  loved 
him,  and  each  person  had  his  say.  Don  Juan's 
servants  received  their  master  from  the  hands 
of  the  archers  and  ran  to  fetch  a  surgeon. 
They  bled  him  abundantly,  and  presently  he 
came  to  himself.  At  first,  however,  he  only 
uttered  words  without  meaning,  inarticulate 
cries,  sobs  and  groans.  Little  by  little  he 
began  to  consider  attentively  all  the  objects 
about  him.  He  asked  where  he  was  and  how 
he  came  there.  Then,  having  drank  a  cor- 
dial, he  made  them  fetch  him  a  crucifix  and 
he  kissed  it  for  a  long  time  and  bathed  it  in 
a  torrent  of  tears.  Next  he  begged  them  to 
bring  him  a  confessor. 

Don.  Juan  had  been  frightened  almost  to 


\ 


I 


S6 


IN    SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


57 


death.  But  he  did  not  die.  A  few  para- 
graphs farther  on  you  will  see  that  he  made^ 
some  years  after  having  attended  his  own 
funeral,  a  gratifying  and  exemplary  end. 
Indeed,  his  conversion  began  with  the  arri- 
val of  the  confessor,  at  whose  feet  Don  Juan 
threw  himself,  related  the  vision  of  the  night 
before  and  offered  confession.  The  Domin« 
ican  exhorted  him  to  persevere  in  his  re- 
pentance and  administered  the  consolation 
religion  does  not  refuse  to  the  greatest  crim- 
inal. He  promised  to  return  in  the  evening 
and  retired. 

When  the  father  returned  Don  Juan  an- 
nounced  that  he  had  formed  a  resolution  to 
retire  from  a  world  where  he  had  given  rise 
to  so  much  scandal  (Don  Juan's  own  words) 
and  he  had  determined  to  exit  in  a  thorough- 
going manner  consistent  with  his  rapid  pace 
in  wicked  courses.  To  accomplish  this  he 
gave  half  of  his  fortune  to  his  relatives,  who 
were  not  rich ;  another  part  he  consecrated 
to  building  a  chapel  and  to  found  a  hospital, 
while  he  distributed  the  remainder  among  the 
poor. 

Before  entering  the  convent  he  had  chosen 
lor  his  retreat,  Juan  wrote  to  Teresa.  In 
this  letter  he  disclosed  his  shameful  purpose, 
recounted  his  life  and  conversion,  and  de- 
manded  her  pardon.     Last  he  entreated  her 


to  follow  his  example  and  save  her  soul  by 
repentance.     This  letter  he  confided  to  the 
Dominican  after  having  read  it  to  him.  When 
Teresa  read  it  she  cried:    ''He  never  loved 
me!"  A  burning  fever  raged  in  the  unhappy 
girl*s  veins,  inflamed  by  the  anxiety  she  felt  at 
Don  Juan's  failure  to  release  her  from  the  con- 
vent or  to  explain  the  reason  of  his  absence.  In 
vain  the  succors  of  medicine  and  religion  were 
offered  her;  she   repulsed  the    one  and  ap- 
peared insensible  to  the  other.  She  died  after 
some  days  which  she  had  spent  in  delirium, 
exclaiming  constantly  :  "He  never  loved  me  !  " 
And  now  behold  two  years  later  Don  Juan, 
or  brother  Ambrose,  tonsured  and  garbed  in 
black.     Behold  also,  his  life  which  was  an  un- 
interrupted exercise  of  piety  and  mortification. 
The  recollection  of  his  sins  (so  aver  the  devout 
Sevillians)  was  always  present  with  him,  but 
his  remorse  was  tempered  by  the  quietude  of 
an  approving  conscience.     One  day,  at  noon- 
tide, when  the  heat  makes   itself  felt   most 
oppressively,  all  the  brothers  of  the  convent 
were  reposing  according  to  custom.  Brother 
Ambrose  alone  worked  in  the  garden,  bare- 
headed in  the  sun,  one  of  his   self-imposed 
penances.     Absorbed  in  his  task  he  scarcely 
perceived   the  shadow  of  a  man  which  fell 
across  him.     He  thought  it  was  one  of  the 
monks  who  had  descended  into  the  garden, 


1 


S8 


IN    SEVILLE. 


and  without  looking  up  he  saluted  him  with 
"  Ave  Maria."  There  was  no  response. 
Surprised  at  this  motionless  shadow,  he  raised 
his  eyes  and  saw  before  him  a  tall  young  man, 
his  form  covered  by  a  mantle  which  fell  to 
the  earth,  and  his  face  half  hidden  beneath 
the  white  and  black  plumes  of  his  hat.  This 
man  contemplated  brother  Ambrose  in  silence, 
with  an  expression  made  up  of  malignant  joy 
and  profound  contempt.  For  some  moments 
they  looked  into  each  others'  eyes.  Then  the 
stranger,  advancing  a  step  and  throwing  back 
his  hat  to  show  his  features,  said : 

"  Do  you  recognize  me  ?  " 

The  monk  gave  a  negative  sign.  The  stran- 
ger pursued  coldly.  "  I  have  a  name  as  well 
as  you,  Don  Juan,  and  a  better  memory.  My 
name  is  Don  Pedro  de  Ojeda  ;  I  am  the  son 
of  Don  Alonzo  de  Ojeda,  whom  you  mur- 
dered. I  am  the  brother  of  Dona  Fausta  de 
Ojeda,  whom  you  murdered.  I  am  the 
brother  of  Dona  Teresa  de  Ojeda,  whom  you 
murdered." 

Don  Juan  trembled.  **  My  brother,"  said 
he,  gently,  "  I  am  a  wretch  covered  with 
crimes.  To  expiate  them  I  have  renounced 
the  world,  and  donned  this  habit.  If  there  is 
any  way  to  obtain  your  pardon  indicate  it. 
The  rudest  penance  will  not  frighten  me,  if 
thereby  I  can  avert  your  curse." 


; 


1 


IN    SEVILLE. 


59 


Don  Pedro  smiled  drily. 

"  Give  over  hypocrisy,  Senor  de  Manara; 
I  do  not  pardon.  My  curse  is  yours  already, 
but  my  patience  is  too  short  to  await  its 
effect.  I  bear  on  me  something  more  effica- 
cious than  curses." 

With  these  words  he  threw  his  mantle 
open,  disclosing  two  long  rapiers.  He  drew 
the  foils  and  planted  both  in  the  earth. 

"  Choose,  Don  Juan,"  said  he.  "  They  say 
you  are  expert.  Let  us  see  what  you  can 
do." 

Don  Juan  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  and 
answered  :  "  My  brother,  you  forget  the  vows 
I  have  taken.  I  am  no  longer  the  Don  Juan 
you  knew;  I  am  brother  Ambrozo." 

"  Brother  Ambrozo,  if  you  will.  You  are 
my  enemy,  and,  under  any  name,  you  owe 
me  vengeance." 

Speaking  thus,  he  pushed  the  priest  rudely 
against  the  wall. 

"  Seiior  Pedro  de  Ojeda ! "  cried  Don 
Juan,  "  kill  me,  if  you  will ;  I  shall  not  fight." 
He  folded  his  arms  and  regarded  Don  Pedro 
with  a  calm  but  intrepid  air. 

"  Yes  ;  I  will  kill  you,  assassin,  but  first  I 
shall  treat  you  like  the  coward  you  are." 
He  gave  him  a  buffet,  the  first  Don  Juan  had 
ever  received.  Don  Juan's  face  flamed  to  a 
purple  red.     The  rage  and  fury  of  his  youth 


6o 


IN   SEVILLE. 


rekindled  in  his  soul.  Without  a  word,  he 
threw  himself  on  one  of  the  swords.  Don 
Pedro  took  the  other  and  stood  on  guard. 
Both  attacked  with  the  same  fury  and  the 
same  impetuosity.  Don  Pedro's  sword  lost 
itself  in  the  woolen  robe  of  Don  Juan,  and 
failed  to  find  his  body,  while  that  of  the 
monk  forced  itself  up  to  the  hilt  in  the  breast 
of  his  adversary.  Don  Pedro  fell  bleeding  to 
the  ground. 

For  a  long  time  Don  Juan  stood  gazing 
with  a  stupefied  air  at  his  enemy  extended  at 
his  feet.  As  he  came  to  himself,  he  recog- 
nized the  enormity  of  this  new  crime.  He 
fell  on  the  corpse  and  sought  to  recall  it  to 
life.  But  Don  Juan  had  seen  too  many 
wounds  to  doubt  for  a  moment  that  this  was 
mortal.  The  dripping  sword  lay  near  and 
offered  a  way  of  escape.  Fleeing  this  temp- 
tation of  Satan,  he  ran  to  the  Superior,  and 
bursting  into  a  torrent  of  tears,  related  to 
him  the  terrible  scene  just  passed.  The 
Superior  was  a  man  noted  for  presence  of 
mind.  He  comprehended  at  once  what 
scandal  would  reflect  on  the  convent  if  this 
adventure  were  made  public.  Nobody  had 
seen  the  duel,  and  by  acting  promptly  he 
might  keep  it  even  from  the  members  of  the 
brotherhood.  Aided  by  Don  Juan,  he  trans- 
ported the  corpse  into  an  underground  hall, 


5 


" 


IN    SEVILLE. 


6l 


of  which  he  took  the  key.  Then  the  Superior 
ordered  brother  Ambrozo  into  his  cell,  and 
went  and  consulted  with  the  Corregidor  of 
Seville.  The  story  was  given  out  that  the 
dead  man  had  fought  a  duel  with  an  un- 
known cavalier,  and  had  staggered  into  the 
convent  to  die. 

So  ends  the  last  story  of  Don  Juan  that 
deals  with  fire  and  sword.  The  remainder  of 
his  life  flowed  on  like  a  calm  stream  between 
banks  covered  with  the  sad  flowers  of  melan- 
choly and  repentance. 

Never  again  did  it  overflow  its  banks, 
swelled  by  a  return  of  the  freshet  of  youth. 
For  ten  years  longer  Don  Juan  lived  in  the 
cloister,  and  he  died  venerated  as  a  saint 
even  by  those  who  ha  d  suffered  from  his 
early  errors.  On  his  death-bed  he  begged, 
as  a  last  favor,  that  they  would  bury  him 
beneath  the  threshold  of  the  church,  that  all 
who  entered  might  soil  him  with  their  feet. 
He  also  wished  them  to  engrave  this  inscrip- 
tion on  his  tomb  :  Cenizas  del  pcor  hoinbre  que 
ha  habido  en  el  Mundo,  But  the  executors  of 
his  wishes  judged  too  tenderly  to  carry  out 
in  full  the  dispositions  dictated  by  his  excess- 
ive humility.  They  buried  him  in  the 
capillo  mayor  of  the  chapel  he  had  founded. 
They  consented  to  engrave  on  the  stone 
which    covered     his    mortal    tenement    the 


62 


IN    SEVILLE. 


epitaph  he  had  composed,  but  they  softened 
this  also,  by  adding  a  recital  of  the  facts  of 
his  miraculous  conversion. 


V. 


IN  the  prize  ring  of  my  mind  Honesty  and 
Banter  have  been  fighting  out  a  round.  It 
is  over.  Honesty  is  under  the  rope,  and  as  a 
result,  a  countryman  in  authority  at  Seville, 
during  our  sojourn  there,  is  compelled  to  sit 
for  his  portrait.  With  the  best  intentions.  I 
cannot  keep  him  out  of  these  pages.  He  is 
my  King  Charles'  head,  and,  withal,  a  figure 
so  queer,  antic  and  laughable,  that  1  may 
write  of  him  without  travesty,  easing  my 
conscience  by  doubting,  if,  as  an  original  odd- 
ity, he  is  his  own  property. 

Some  trifle  that  I  have  forgotten  took  us 
to  call  on  this  official  the  day  after  we 
arrived,  a  trifle  that  seemed  imperative, 
when  we  were  told  that  his  office  lay  close 
by,  in  a  hotel  across  the  square.  We  went 
over,  and  were  shown  into  a  small  room  on 
the  ground  floor,  which  contained  the  air  of 
liberty.  As  the  windows  looked  out  on  the 
sunny  Plaza  Nuova,  the  air  of  liberty  was 
very  hot  and  close. 


4Lb 


1' 


..       • 


IN    SEVILLE. 


63 


We  waited   here   a   half   hour,  when  the 
official  opened  the  door  and  paused  on  the 
threshold   to   throw  us  a  searching  glance 
before  entering.     In  turn  we  examined  him. 
His  figure  was  tall  and  thin  ;  his  complexion 
purple  and  mottled  ;  his  hair  and  beard  sandy 
gray  ;  in  fine,  at  the  moment  of  entrance  he 
looked  more  like  a  spruce  Castilian  than  a 
fellow  citizen;  so  much  so  that  we  began 
making  mental  grasps  at  Spanish  words  of 
salutation.     But  the   next  moment  we  saw 
that   this  was   only  an   imitation  Spaniard ; 
the  spruce,  stiff  manner  sat   uneasily  upon 
him,  his   walk  was  a  combination  of  shuffle 
and  strut — an  inferior  copy  of  the  dignified 
Spanish  stride.     He  seemed  to  feel  that  the 
performance  was  a  caricature,  for  he  stopped 
half   way,  gave   a  little   '^hem!"    and  then 
came  forward,  fastening  with  nervous  fingers 
the  hooks  into  the  eyes  of  the  imaginary  con- 
sular garment.     It  would  be  difficult  to  imi- 
tate   the   magnificence    he    threw   into   the 
greeting.     *'Take   seats,"    he   said,   but  his 
tone  meant  *'  kneel." 

When  he  spoke  again  it  was  with  a  new 
voice,  a  querulous,  nasal  **  down  East  '*  voice, 
but  with  the  English  inflection — a  marvelous 
combination  which  must  be  heard  to  be  ap- 
preciated. This  whimsical  voice  was  pecu- 
liarly adapted  for  complaints  about  Spanish 


i 


64 


IN    SEVILLE. 


hotels,  Spanish  servants,  and  Spanish  life  in 
general.  I  supposed  it  was  the  little  difficulty 
we  had  brought  to  his  notice  which  set  him 
off,  but  I  soon  learned  that  condemnation  of 
everything  Spanish  was  a  favorite  course 
with  him.  A  little  later  he  took  on  the 
patronizing  speech  of  an  old  traveler,  and 
later  still  he  resumed  the  Spanish  grandilo- 
quence which  was  so  foreign  to  his  tongue. 
VVe  were  puzzled  to  decide  which  were  his 
natural  accents,  and  yet  he  was  the  same  old 
man  through  them  all.  Whether  he  spoke 
like  a  Castilian  or  a  cockney,  or  an  Eastern 
Yankee,  amid  all  the  foreign  accents  and  mis- 
pronunciations that  he  had  raked  together 
from  every  country  of  Europe  to  poison  his 
mother  tongue,  he  remained  a  quaint,  pa- 
thetic person,  hungry  for  honor,  anxious  to 
be  liked,  a  lonely,  homesick  old  man,  who 
offended  the  Sevillians  and  bored  his  com- 
patriots. 

When  he  was  not  talking  it  was  easy  to 
place  the  old  gentleman.  One  had  seen  him 
scores  of  times  sitting  in  the  village  grocery 
store,  with  his  boots  on  the  stove,  nibbling  a 
section  of  dried  apple,  and  discussing  district 
politics.  Sometimes,  even  while  talking,  he 
forgot  for  a  moment  that  he  was  obliged  to 
sustain  the  dignity  of  a  whole  nation,  and 
relapsed  into  a  simple  citizen   whose   own 


i 


IN    SEVILLE. 


6s 


concerns  interested  him  more  than  inter- 
national polity.  Then,  listening*  to  his  con- 
versation, we  knew  that  we  had  met  him  in 
Glastonbury  or  Bangor.  But  he  never  fairly 
started  to  speak  of  himself  before  he  caught 
up  the  purple,  and  wrapped  it  about  him  in 
a  shamefaced  fashion.  At  such  times  it  was 
comical  to  read  in  his  eyes  the  distress  he 
felt  at  having  shown  himself  unmasked. 

He  was  one  of  the  horde  of  expatriated 
Americans,  unable  or  unwilling  to  return 
home,  who  roam  over  the  continent  of 
Europe  in  search  of  the  culture  that  most 
commonly  but  succeeds  in  reducing  them  to 
the  standard  of  European  commonplace.  It 
had  the  contrary  effect  on  our  friend,  by  sub- 
merging him  in  a  friendless  situation  which 
entirely  washed  away  the  commonplace.  He 
was  so  isolated  and  felt  so  sharply  the  pangs 
of  loneliness  that  he  became  poetical.  To  me 
he  will  ever  stand  for  the  image  of  Exile. 

Of  his  history  we  learned  only  what  a  few 
bitter  words  pieced  out  with  conjecture  could 
tell,  to  the  effect  that  in  America — at  home ! — 
he  had  children  who  consented  to  eke  out  his 
little  income  so  long  as  he  remained  abroad. 
This  is  not  enough,  or  it  is  too  much  to  hang 
a  romance  on,  according  to  one's  school — 
but  his  present  environment  was  pathetically 
friendless.  He  could  not  speak  the  language, 


66 


IN    SEVILLE. 


and  the  efforts  to  learn  it  and  so  placate  the 
Spanish  merchants,  with  whom  he  had  to 
deal  in  his  official  capacity,  always  rubbed 
them  the  wrong  way.  His  assumption  of  the 
Spanish  gravity — since  it  was  a  caricature — 
insulted  the  natives.  In  the  truest  sense,  he 
was  like  a  clerk  who  is  without  capacity  to 
perform  his  duty  and  please  his  master,  yet 
is  not  honest  or  brave  enough  to  cast  out  the 
bit  of  salary  and  wander  careless  on  the 
common  of  poverty.  The  old  man's  address, 
extremely  haughty  to  tourists,  approached 
cringing  toward  petty  Spanish  shipping 
clerks,  behind  whom  lay  the  complaisance 
of  his  own  children. 

His  manner  had  turns  of  great  simplicity  ; 
we  saw  him  constantly  while  we  remained 
at  Seville,  and  learned  all  shades  of  it.  He 
delighted  to  map  out  for  us  routes  of  travel, 
and  I  am  glad  to  remember  we  never  refused 
the  notes  of  introduction  (addressed  to  peo- 
ple who  had  time  to  die  or  forget  him)  or 
sundry  information  he  took  such  a  childish 
pleasure  to  impart.  Five  years  before  we 
met  him  he  had  made  a  tour  on  foot  along 
the  Italian  coast  from  Castellamare  to  Genoa, 
and  he  directed  us  to  a  shop  in  every  city 
on  the  way,  w^iere  he  urged  us  to  make  a 
special  purchase  and  mention  his  name  as  the 
A  mericayi  gentleman  who  walked  ! 


IN    SEVILLE. 


67 


And  how  fond  he  was  of  dress !    He  could 
not  accept  the  fact  that  he  was  old  and  no 
longer  quite  the  glass— if  he  had  ever  been— 
fashion  would  choose  wherein  to  view  her- 
self.   As  soon  as  he  heard  that  his  American 
friends  had  lately  come  from   Paris  he  put 
them  through  a  catechism  of  the  modes  such 
as  a  young  majo  of  Seville  might  have  drawn 
up.     Texture,  color  and  cut  were  his  topics, 
and  in  discoursing  of  them  he  felt  the  cloth, 
held  it  to  the  light  and  snipped  it  with  the 
scissors  in  a  way  that  denoted  understand- 
ing, though  at  second-hand,  for  our  country *s 
representative  really  dressed  himself  in  by 
gone   fashions.     It  was   hard  not  to  laugh 
when  he  presented  his  ancient  person  touched 
up  with  an  extra  toilet,  but  to  laugh  when  he 
was  so  serious  would  have  been  cruel.     He 
invariably  replied  to  our  compliments  :  ''  Oh, 
these  things  are  a  trifle  passe."     (We  could 
have  wagered  that  an  American  tailor  stitched 
them  together  twenty  years  before.)  ''  I  think 
of  taking  a  run  to  Paris  to  spruce  up  a  bit.*' 
Waking    up    one    Sunday    morning,    my 
emotions  were  inexpressible  to  perceive  our 
friend  in  my  room  preening  himself  before 
the  glass.     He  had  bought  a  round  gray  felt 
hat  of  the  easy  style  beloved  by  travellers, 
and    was   now   trying  its  effect  in  different 
positions  on  his  head.     First,  he  cocked  it 


6S 


IN    SEVILLE. 


over  the  right  ear ;  second,  over  the  left,  and 
then  rolled  it  back  off  the  forehead  to  ex- 
pose a  fringe  of  sandy-gray  hair.  When  he 
discovered  that  I  was  watching  him  he  was 
not  a  whit  abashed,  but  promptly  challenged 
me  to  admire  the  ridiculous  hat  as  jaunty  and 
becoming. 

This  incident  implies  that  he  spent  as  much 
time  in  our  company  as  he  could  manage  and 
we  could  not  avoid.  How  many  letters  has 
he  interrupted  !  How  many  delightful  morn- 
ing naps  has  he  ruthlessly  broken !  But  I 
forgive  him,  and  if  1  remembered  the 
number  would  set  it  down  without  malice. 
Wherever  he  may  be,  whether  he  is  in  the 
world  or  gone  to  that  bourne 

Where  books  of  travel  are  not  bought, 
And  only  novels  sell, 

may  he  have  found  congenial  spirits  who  de- 
light in  listening  to  tiresome  old  stories  and 
in  trying  on  fictive  new  clothes. 

One  evening  the  old  gentleman  came  to 
persuade  us  to  appear  in  evening  dress  at  a 
reception  he  was  to  give  to  the  American 
minister,  who  had  come  down  to  spend  Sun- 
day in  Seville.  We  excused  ourselves  on  the 
plea  that  we  were  strangers  to  the  minister, 
who  had  probably  come  to  see  Seville,  not 
us.  Our  friend  would  not  take  no  tor  an 
answer,  but  continued  to  urge  us  with  such 


y 


IN    SEVILLE. 


69 


a  hurt  look  that  at  last  we  consented,  and  he 
bustled  out  with  all  his  cheerful  excitement 
high  once  more.  As  it  turned  out,  we  would 
not  have  missed  forming  part  of  the  odd  little 
party,  a  small  American  colony  of  five  peo- 
ple, whom  he  led  into  the  minister's  sitting 
room  at  the   Fonda  de  Madrid,  and  intro- 
duced with  a  voice  full  of  emotion.     There 
was  an  uncle  and  his  nephew  who  claimed 
the  birthright  of  Freedom,  though  they  had 
lived  at  Seville  for  many  years.     The  uncle 
was  a  stout,  florid  man  of  middle  age,  who 
did  not  speak  during  the  evening,  but  wore 
an  intense  look,  as  if  he  had  just  done  crying: 
''Hear!  Hear!"   to  a  fervid   sentence   like 
''  Millions  for  defence,  but  not  one  cent  for 
tribute."    I  learned  afterwards  that  he  lacked 
even  enough  English  for  the  purpose  of  ap- 
plause.  He  had  entirely  forgotten  his  mother 
tongue— a  fact  that  surprised  us  less  when 
we  heard  that  he  had  emigrated  from  Massa- 
chusetts  to   Andalusia   in    his  second   year. 
The  younger  man,  who  had  been  sent  back 
to  be  educated  in  a  school  near  Boston,  was 
a  happier  guest,  but  even  he  was  not  quite 
up  in  the  President's  English.     He  spoke  it 
in  a  charming  original   fashion,  which    was 
vastly   more   amusing  than   any  foreigner's 
broken  attempt.    Having  forgotten,  one-quar- 
ter of  his  vocabulary,  he  coined  words  with- 


70 


IN    SEVILLE. 


out  hesitation,  and  gave  to  his  inventions  a 
strong  Boston  accent.  But  for  him  the 
audience  would  have  gone  off  stiffly.  The 
lesser  diplomat  took  the  event  of  his  career 
in  office  too  seriously,  and  the  honorable  min- 
ister no  doubt  felt  the  reception  of  five  stran- 
gers without  a  pretext  of  business  or  pleasure 
to  be  an  irksome  duty.  But  the  national 
ceremony  of  shaking  hands  had  hardly  been 
gone  through  with  before  the  young  Ameri- 
can-Spaniard threw  a  few  happy  remarks  into 
the  pause  which  followed.  He  stated  that  he 
had  once  travelled  to  Madrid,  where  he  had 
the  honor  to  be  presented  to  Senor  Castelar, 
"  who  is  not  taller  than  you  are  in  standing 
up,  but  I  fancy  taller  in  brain." 

The  agony  of  his  sponsor  at  this  ill-timed 
tribute  to  the  Spanish  orator  was  painful  to 
witness,  but  it  did  not  endure  long.  The 
consular  agent  at  once  began  to  talk,  and  in 
that  delicious  exercise  he  forgot  his  proteges. 
They  amused  themselves  by  watching  his 
face  and  predicting,  before  he  opened  his 
mouth,  whether  he  would  describe  Paris 
fashions,  or  tramp  over  again  that  famous 
walking  tour  in  Italy,  or  deliver  a  tirade 
against  the  haughty  Spaniards— his  three 
inexhaustible  topics  we  had  learned  to  antici- 
pate. This  time  he  disappointed  us.  As  the 
reception  was  an  extraordinary  occasion,  it* 


IN    SEVILLE. 


71 


called  for  new  matter,  like  the  mission  school 
he  had  established  in  Triana.  He  spoke  of 
that  school,  related  three  times  over  the  his- 
tory of  its  inauguration,  and  invited  the 
minister  to  attend  on  the  following  day. 

We  went  away  in  single  file,  as  we  had  ar- 
rived, and  in  the  same  order,  except  that  the 
oLd  gentleman  brought  up  the  rear.  Before 
the  procession  reached  the  hotel  court,  he 
overtook  the  foremost  man,  and  insisted  on 
shaking  hands  all  around.  To  each  of  us,  as 
he  said  good-night,  he  repeated  emphatically, 
'*It  went  off  very  well.  Thank  you,  thank 
you !     It  went  off  remarkably  well." 

No  one  could  resist  the  contagion  of  his 
enthusiasm,  and  as  we  left  him  still  smiling 
and  bowing,  every  man  was  convinced  that 
the  reception — owing,  of  course,  to  his  own 
attendance — had  gone  off  very  well,  indeed. 


VI. 


IT  was  still  early,  so  when  the  young  Ameri- 
can-Spaniard invited  us  to  accompany  him 
to  the  house  of  some  friends  who  were  giving 
a  musicale,  we  eagerly  fell  in  with  the  proposal. 
He  took  the  lead,  and  we  walked  through  the 
black  streets,  here  and  there  aglow  with  light 


72 


IN   SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


Streaming  through  an  illuminated  patio.    Be- 
fore one  of  these  bright  spots  he  stopped  and 
rang  the  bell.  The  g'ate  swung  back,  and  the 
master  of  the  house  came  in  person,  and  met 
us  midway  in  the  patio.     He  was  a  typical 
Spaniard  of  the  middle  class,  but  offered  us 
hospitality  like  a  grand  seigneur.    The  house 
was  unlike  the  majority  of  Seville  houses  in 
that  the  patio  was  not  bounded  by  porticos, 
but  narrowed  from  the  walls  directly  into  a 
small  passageway  that  led  to  the  parlors  situ- 
ated on  the  ground  floor.     These  were  two 
large  rooms  thrown  into  one,  scantily  fur« 
nished  except  as  to  rocking  chairs.     In  the 
rear  room  a  table  was  spread  with  cakes  and 
sweetmeats,  and  in  the  front  parlor  overlook- 
ing the  street,  stood  a  piano.   The  seiior  pre- 
sented us  to  his  wife— a  delicate,  sweet-faced 
woman— who  was  sitting  in  the  connecting 
doorway  in  the  midst  of  her  friends,  and  then 
he  carried  us  into  the  other  room,  where  most 
of  the  men  sat  about,  the  elders  at  small  card 
tables,  and  the  younger  men  tilted  against 
the  wall  and  staring  across  a  broad  river  of 
tobacco  smoke— the    Hellespont   that  sepa- 
rated them  from  their  Heros.   We  were  not 
early,  but  it  seemed  that  these  Leanders  had 
not  yet  dared  to  swim. 

At  the  piano  the  daughter  of  the  house  and 
the   leader  of  the  San   Fernande  orchestra 


73 


were  playing  duets.  She  rose  when  her 
father  called  her — a  young  and  very  pretty 
girl— so  pretty,  in  fact,  that  in  her  behalf  I 
would  like  to  translate  the  delicious  Spanish 
freedom  of  compliment.  Like  most  Sevil- 
lanas,  she  was  rather  under  the  middle  size, 
but  her  Paris  gown  may  have  given  that 
effect,  for  it  was  short,  and  displayed  a  lovely 
little  foot,  of  which  she  could  not  be  too 
proud. 

This  young  girl's  chief  charm  was  her  com- 
plexion ;  instead  of  the  pallor  that  the  Seville 
ladies  of  the  Delicias  Gardens  cultivate,  her 
cheeks  were  of  a  ripe,  warm  hue,  a  creamy 
brown,  through  which  a  ruddy  flood  contin- 
ually pulsed.  Her  features  were  dignified, 
yet  a  bit  coy  ;  but  why  enumerate  the  items 
when  the  likeness  escapes?  Here  are  the 
others,  though  :  white  teeth,  well  arched  eye- 
brows, eyes,  full,  black  and  glowing,  such  as 
poets  have  taught  us  are  only  to  be  met  with 
in  the  mellow  regions  of  Andalusia.  She 
crossed  the  room  to  her  father  with  short, 
quick,  yet  graceful  steps,  gazing  upon  the 
strangers  with  calm  and  reserved  eyes,  but 
kindling  into  smiles  when  she  recognized  her 
acquaintance,  the  American-Spaniard.  Lucky 
fellow  !  how  we  envied  him  that  glance  ! 

Whenever  she   was   not  playing— for  the 
young  orchestra  leader  evidentlv  considered 

^0 


74 


IN    SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


75 


her  a  fine  musician,  and  was  ever  hanging- 
over  her  chair,  beseeching  her  to  begin  again 
to  ''repent,"  as  the  Boston  emigre  called  im- 
provisation—she used  the  time  to  start  con- 
versation going  between   us  and    her  com- 
rades, who  showed  more  modesty  than  we 
thought  becoming,  and  kept  retreating  be- 
hind the  line  of  veterans— the  married  ladies 
in  the  doorway.     Nor  were  the  strangers  of 
the   best   material   out  of   which   a   hostess 
would  like  to  form  her  guests.     No  man  feels 
perfectly  easy  when  he  suspects  he  is  being 
laughed  at,  even  though  the  laugh  is  a  good 
natured    one,    and  we  were  quite  sure  the 
ladies  laughed  and  wondered  at  us  as  half 
barbarians,    in  whom  the   leaven  of  Seville 
was  but  beginning  to  work.     At  last  our  mu- 
tual coyness  melted  in  the  warmth  of  the 
young  hostess's  wish  to   put  her  guests  at 
ease.     We  were  soon  chattering  as  merrily 
as  an  imperfect  knowledge  of  Spanish  per- 
mitted,   and    our   example    ought    to    have 
shamed   the   Seville  youth,  who   kept  their 
places  about  the  walls,   and  glowered  from 
behind  a  rampart  of  smoke. 

A  little  later  our  slow  use  of  the  language 
kept  us  from  joining  in  the  games  that  were 
played  before  we  went  away,  involving  as 
they  did  catches  and  plays  on  words ;  but  it 
took  no  polyglot  to  enter  into  their  spirit. 


With  the  Sevillanas  we  were  delighted  in 
a  degree  worthy  of  those  superlative  crea- 
tures who  magnify  everything,  and  deserve 
to  be  viewed  through  a  magnifying  glass. 
We  were  charmed  with  their  expressive  eyes, 
pensive  and  ardent  by  turns,  with  their  se- 
ducing Andalusian  accent,  and  with  their 
exaggerated  speech.  It  was  easy  to  believe 
that  they  have  but  two  routes  of  conversa- 
tion :  from  the  tiny  to  the  tremendous,  and 
vice  versa;  and  we  went  tradition  one  better 
by  concluding  that  the  maidens  of  Seville  are. 
by  nature  strangers  to  commonplace. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  evening  it  was 
proposed  that  three  of  the  fair  guests  should 
stand  up  and  dance  for  us,  and  all  the  men 
with  one  voice  shouted  in  the  slang  of  the 
bull-ring  for  a  boletin  de  sombra.  The  musician 
several  times  played  over  the  opening  bars 
of  the  dance,  but  it  did  not  come  off.  But 
we  had  the  fun  of  preparation.  "  Thou  shalt 
dance  as  my  majo,  Martita."  "Nay,  the 
senoritomust  be  thou  who  art  taller."  "Chi- 
qui-ti-ti-ti-ta,  come  and  take  my  place,  I  have 
forgotten  the  step." 

So  it  was  laughter  and  silvery  screams, 
little  pushes,  pathetic  implorings,  peremp- 
tory commands— all  the  accompaniment  of 
preparation  and  fiasco,  that  called  to  mind 
similar  beginnings  we  had  seen  at  home. 


76 


IN    SEVILLE. 


VII.      • 

THE  shameless  Cafe  Chantant  pretends  to 
mantle  a  blush  for  the  Cafe  Flamenca  of 
Seville,  while  the  latter  looks  the  other  way 
when  her  Parisian  sister  passes  by.  Into  de- 
grees of  license  I  have  no  intention  to  enter 
here,  and  I  seek,  by  this  comparison,  only  to 
arrive  at  the  reputation  of  the  Cafe  Flamenca. 
It  is  very  bad.  It  is  even  said  to  be  danger- 
ous. Your  old  Spanish  traveler  will  ask  you 
if  you  went  to  a  Flamenca,  and  when  you 
answer  yes— as  you  love  the  truth-— he  will 
be  amazed  that  you  got  back  without  a 
wound. 

It  hurts  my  pride  to  admit  that  the  Sevil- 
lian  chulo  considered  me  beneath  his  navaja. 
He  never  once  flashed  it  before  my  eyes,  and 
I  am  compelled  to  write  a  description  of  the 
Flamenca  without  putting  in  the  high  lights 
of  love  and  jealousy.  There  is  nought  more 
charming  in  a  Sevillian  tale  than  to  read  how 
a  beautiful  girl,  smoking  a  cigarette  on  the 
parapet  of  the  bridge,  accosted  you  with 
mocking  words,  but  in  a  rich  contralto  voice ; 
how  she  permitted  you  to  buy  her  sweet- 
meats and  promegranates,  and  to  accompany 
her  in  a  long  ramble  through  dark  streets  to 
her  poor  home ;  how  finally  she  exchanged  her 


IN    SEVILLE. 


77 


• 
nonchalance  and  disdain  for  smiles  and  tender 

words.      In  due  course  the  adventure  should 

terminate  by  the  unexpected   arrival  of   the 

chiilo — a  brigand  to  whom  you  once  granted 

sanctuary — and  his^udden  recognition  of  you 

in  the  midst  of  a  struggle  is  the   only   thing 

that  saves  your  life — unless,  indeed,  he  fails 

to  recognize  you,  and  a  more  tragical  climax 

is  attained. 

This  well  preserved  narrative  of  Spanish 
adventure,  slightly  varied  in  details,  always 
passes  current,  and  every  traveler  expects 
something  of  the  kind  to  happen  to  him  when 
he  visits  a  Cafe  Flamenca.  It  does  not, 
however,  and  he  returns  to  his  hotel  without 
other  disability  than  a  headache,  the  result  of 
the  bad  wine  he  has  drunk. 

The  women  frequenters  of  the  Flamenca 
are  outwardly  decorous  enough.  They  will 
not  taunt  you  with  mocking  words,  nor 
tempt  you  with  loving  speeches;  in  fact,  they 
will  not  say  anything  whatever  to  you  unless 
you  speak  first.  They  make  up  in  good  be- 
havior what  they  lack  in  beauty. 

The  hall  where  these  revels  are  held  is,  in 
general,  a  bare,  low-ceiled  room  with  rafters 
and  walls  whitewashed.  It  is'  usually  to  be 
found  in  a  street  with  an  intensely  religious 
name.  In  Cordova  we  saw  the  flamenca 
danced  in  a  sequestrated  parish  church.   The 


78 


IN    SEVILLE. 


• 

room  is  furnished  with  tables  for  the  accom- 
modation of  drinkers,  and  a  round  platform 
for  the  dancers  stands  at  one  end.  The  per- 
formance, following  the  Spanish  custom,  be- 
gins early,  about  6:30  o'clock,  and  while  the 
hall  is  filling  up,  or  before  the  tobacco  smoke 
grows  dense,  is  the  best  time  to  examine  the 
sirens  of  the  flamenca,  both  on  and  off  the 
stage. 

The  former  are  usually  the  ugliest  and 
coarsest  of  the  lot.  They  sit  in  a  half-circle 
about  a  man  who  plays  the  guitar;  the  wo- 
man next  him  on  either  side  has  castanets  in 
her  hands,  while  the  two  or  three  women 
•  beyond  each  of  them  are  the  dancers.  All 
these  women  wear  long,  full-skirted  gowns ; 
shawls  of  china  crepe  over  their  shoulders,' 
and  bracelets  of  black  velvet  or  gaudy  rib- 
bon on  their  arms.  Their  eyes  are  red  be- 
neath the  heavy  curls  pasted  down  on  their 
foreheads,  and  they  address  curt  remarks  to 
each  other  in  raucous  voices. 

The  women  about  the  little  tables  are  more 
agreeable  to  look  upon,  but  their  speech  also 
is  hoarse,  and  half  of  what  they  say  remains 
in  their  throats.  Most  of  them  are  here  with 
men— short,  broad  chested  fellows,  with  long 
upper  lips  and  crisp,  bushy  locks,  black 
almost  to  blueness.  A  few  details  relieve  the 
shadowy  hall— the  gleam  of  a  round  white 


* 


IN   SEVILLE. 


79 


arm  fit  to  serve  as  an  artist's  model,  the  flash 
of  dark  eyes  that  shine  with  phosphorescent 
light.  One  woman  is  strangely  fascinating. 
She  sits  by  herself  at  a  table  in  the  darkest 
corner,  where  her  shadow  merges  impercep- 
tibly with  the  purplish  gray  wall.  She  sits 
motionless,  seeing  nothing,  not  even  the 
strangers,  specimens  of  a  rare  species.  She 
is  not  pretty,  but  her  figure,  even  in  repose, 
shows  admirable  flexibility,  and  her  face  is 
one  that  will  attract  a  second  look  when  she 
is  happy.  Now  it  displays  the  tension  of 
anxiety.  It  seems  that  to-night  is  to  decide 
something  for  her.  Oh,  Chula^  where  is  thy 
Chulo  f  I  am  certain  she  has  quarreled  with 
her  lover,  and  expects  to  make  it  up  with 
him  here.     Will  he  come? 

There  is  only  one  other  woman  unattended 
in  this  hall.  She  is  tall  and  youthful  also, 
bareheaded,  with  oily  locks  of  abundant 
black  hair.  Across  her  shoulders  she  has 
folded  a  red  and  yellow  scarf.  It  makes  her 
look  like  a  handsome  mulatto.  Her  eyes  are 
almond  shaped  and  deep  set,  only  half  opened, 
and  yet  disclosing  a  hard  look.  This  woman 
has  no  pity  for  weakness.  She  glances  scorn- 
fully at  the  other  solitary  one.  She  quarrels 
and  forgets — ^just  as  she  loves  and  forgets. 
What  is  there  to  remember?  'Presently  she 
Jooks  at  us  with  the  same  disdainful  air,  as 


8o 


IN   SEVILLE. 


much  as  to  say:  **  What  are  you  doing  here? 
Why  do  you  come  and  neither  drink  nor 
play?" 

There  is  a  lull  in  the  conversation  as  the 
guitar  player  (he  has  a  head  like  a  cynoce- 
phalus)  draws  his  fingers  across  the  strings 
and  begins,  in  a  deep  croaking  voice,  to  utter 
exclamations  like  the  prelude  to  a  chant. 
The  women  sit  straighter  in  their  chairs  and 
accompany  him  with  murmurs  ;  the  castanets 
faintly  clink.  He  continues  to  strike  the 
guitar  and  to  shout  louder  and  more  con- 
nected words,  while  the  women  carry  the 
treble  notes  continuously,  and  the  music  be- 
comes a  tune  made  up  of  two  discordant 
elements,  a  strain  of  very  high  pitch,  accom- 
panied by  a  growling  bass.  The  middle  reg- 
ister is  absolutely  neglected,  and  this  neglect 
is  painful  to  the  ear. 

Upon  the  women  performers  this  music 
works  a  curious  change.  Their  cheeks  red- 
den a  little,  the  eyes  begin  to  sparkle,  cruel 
smiles  play  around  their  drawn  lips,  and  with 
the  heels  of  their  slippers  they  beat  time  upon 
the  floor  as  if  involuntarily. 

The  guitar  player  continues  his  incantation. 
He  strikes  over  and  over  again  the  same 
notes  of  his  guitar.  But  now  he  shouts  less 
frequently ;  it  is  not  necessary,  for  he  is  by 
this  time,  reinforced  by  all  the  men  in  the 


IN    SEVILLE. 


8l 


.t 


f 


cafe,  who   clap   their  hands  softly  and  yell 
hoarse  cries  like  this : 

"  0/e  !  Ole  !    Viva  tu  mare  P' 

These  cries  are  intermittent,  but  the  guitar 
goes  on  always,  entreating,  seducing,  and 
gradually  intoxicating  the  dancers  with  its 
barbaric  monotony.  The  musician  leans 
back  on  his  stool,  elevates  his  chin  until  his 
face  is  invisible,  and  gives  vent  now  and  then 
to  a  sort  of  enraged  howl.  The  cries  of  the 
spectators  grow  fiercer  and  louder— "6^/^./ 
Ole  I  "—and  they  clap  their  hands  and  stamp 
their  feet  with  a  measured  noise  like  a  stam- 
pede of  buffaloes.  Meanwhile  the  eyes  of  the 
dancers  dilate  and  shine  like  furnaces — they 
stamp  their  feet  in  unison,  they  breathe  in 
gasps,  and  they  seem  to  grow  young  and 
lovely  as  you  continue  to  contemplate  them. 

Then  one  woman  rises  to  her  feet,  extends 
both  arms  horizontally,  and  with  eyes  half 
closed,  a  strange  smile  on  her  lips,  she  ad- 
vances slowly  and  gradually,  all  the  time 
swinging  and  balancing  herself  like  a  ham- 
mock, into  the  centre  of  the  circle.  Her 
gilded  shoes  mark  time  with  the  castanets; 
her  long  skirt  rises  and  falls  ;  her  ankles,  clad 
in  yellow  silk,  gleam  in  a  rotatory  motion 
like  the  gold  apples  of  Atalanta.  She  bends 
forward  and  back,  her  limbs  move  languor- 
ously, her  heels  only  mark  the  time.     From 


82 


IN    SEVILLE. 


the  slow  movement  she  passes  into  the  vitOy 
and  the  lower  part  of  her  body  undulates 
with  quick  circles  like  the  head  of  a  serpent, 
while  from  the  waist  up  she  seems  column- 
like, except  for  her  swaying  arms  and  her 
head,  which  she  shakes  back  and  forth  as  if 
to  dislocate  it.  Throughout  this  rapid  dance 
she  fixes  on  the  spectators  an  unchanging 
glance,  half-invitation,  half-menace. 

**  Ole  !  Ole  !  "  Stamps  and  hand-clappings 
increase.  Men  and  women  breathe  quickly 
and  deeply.  The  guitar  player  sprawls  on 
his  stool,  with  his  head  thrown  back  in 
ecstacy,  while  the  guitar  gives  forth  the  same 
sounds,  only  louder.  Another  dancer  joins 
the  first,  then  a  third,  until  all  the  women, 
including  those  with  the  castanets,  have  fol- 
lowed, seized  by  the  same  intoxication. 

Now  they  dance  the  Zapateado;  they 
dance  the  same  steps  in  concert,  but  each  girl 
crosses  and  recrosses  the  stage  as  the  whim 
seizes  her,  but  never  colliding  with  any 
other.  They  raise  their  arms,  touch  them  to 
the  floor,  over  their  heads,  behind  their 
backs,  but  there  is  no  appearance  of  mere 
acrobatic  agility  in  these  movements.  At 
last  these  women  lose  the  aspect  of  human 
beings,  and  become  veritable  creatures  of 
the  barbaric  music,  personified  notes  of  its 
gamut,  and  their  faces,  under  the  magical 


IN   SEVILLE. 


85 


excitement  of  the  dance,  take  an  aspect  of 
beauty.  It  is  not  sublimated  beauty.  It  is 
beaute  du  diable.  Their  lovers  will  tremble 
beneath  the  rage  of  their  love,  the  fever  of 
their  caresses. 

In  their  turn  these  women — vulgar  before 
— exert  a  terrible  influence  on  the  spectators. 
By  the  enchantment  of  their  glowing  eyes,, 
their  tight-shut  lips,  their  heaving  breasts, 
the  dancers  transport  the  excitable  Spaniards 
into  another  realm.  It  is  not  a  realm  of  joy 
and  peace.  It  is  a  realm  of  fire  and  sword — 
streaked  red  and  yellow  like  the  Spanish 
flag. 

Would  all  this  be  common-place  at  home? 
Perhaps  ;  but  here  we  are  carried  out  of  our- 
selves; we  are  affected  like  the  Spaniards. 
We  balance  our  heads  from  shoulder  to 
shoulder;  we  abandon  ourselves  to  the  mo- 
notonous  and  implacable  music.  We  are  in 
the  arena  watching  the  toreador  as  he  enters, 
tightly  cased  in  a  jacket  stiff  with  gold,  a 
bright  scarlet  silk  waistcoat,  a  jaunty  hat  on 
his  head  and  in  his  hand  the  long  sword  that 
weds  the  sunlight.  We  hear  him  sing  to  his 
well-beloved  this  couplet  of  the  Petenera: 

Kisses  one  and  the  other 

I  can  never  forget  are  two, 
The  last  I  gave  my  mother, 

The  first  I  gave  to  you. 


84 


IN  SEVILLE. 


IN  SEVILLE. 


85 


Or  we  are  on  the  enormous  diligence,  be- 
hind the  four  pairs  and  their  leader.  We  see 
the  Zagal  as  he  goes  among  them  inspecting 
their  gaudy  trappings,  while  the  Mayoral 
stands  bantering  with  the  buxom  maid  of  the 
inn. 

*'  Coachman,  do  you  know  the  town  ? 

It  is  easy  to  lose  yourself  there." 
"  You  ask  me  if  I  know  the  town! 

My  father  was  born  in  its  kennel, — 

My  mother  before  the  Cathedral." 

Then,  as  the  Zagal  announces  that  all  is 
ready,  the  gallant  driver  presses  the  maid's 
waist  in  farewell,  while  she  continues : 

"If  you  seek  me  with  a  good  motive, 
Let  us  go  quickly  to  the  parish — 
Let  us  be  married  in  Latin." 

At  which  the  driver  laughs  loudly,  swings 
himself  to  his  lofty  perch,  cracks  his  whip, 
the  Zagal  shouts  ''Arre^^'  the  bystanders  ap- 
plaud, the  mules  jingle  their  bells  and  leap 
into  a  cloud  of  dust. 

*'  Ole  !  Ole  !   Viva  tu  mare  !  " 

But  one  girl  is  dancing  now.  Her  com- 
panions are  sitting  down,  overpowered  by 
the  excess  of  their  excitement  and  the  vio- 
lence of  their  exercise.  The  guitar  murmurs 
in  a  lower  tone  and  with  frequefnt  pauses. 
Slower  and  slower  she  glides,  her  billowy 
skirt  subsides,  and  gradually,  almost  imper- 


ceptibly, as  a  wave  with  the  dying  swell,  she 
sinks  into  her  seat. 

*  *  *  *  *  ¥:  *  * 


VIII. 

ERRANTRY  frequentlyled  our  feet  to  the 
iron  bridge  that  spans  the  Guadalquivir. 
The  situation  is  not  to  be  despised  ;  in  addi- 
tion to  the  wide  spreading  view  it  commands, 
it  has  a  certain  charm  for  the  lover  of  his 
kind.  In  the  middle  of  the  graceful  span  he 
may  take  his  position,  and  without  a  great 
stretch  of  the  imagination  (none  whatever  if 
he  is  a  native),  consider  himself  to  stand  in 
the  centre  of  the  world's  commerce.  On 
both  sides  rise  forests  of  masts  -  of  small 
ships,  it  is  true,  sailing  vessels,  minor  steam- 
ers, tugs,  and  lighters — the  undergrowth  of 
commerce,  but  imposing  by  their  multitude. 
These  vessels  seemed  to  be  fixtures ;  we  never 
saw  them  arriving  or  setting  out.  Their  dis- 
mantled masts  resembled  freshly  set-out  trees, 
that  would,  in  time,  put  on  leaves.  They 
led  by  a  natural  transition  to  the  thickly 
clothed  oaks  and  poplars  of  the  Delicias 
gardens  on  Seville's  side,  and  on  Triana's 
they  served  to  hedge  out  the  sight  of  filthy 


I: 


. 


^6 


IN    SEVILLE. 


inns,  sailors*  lodging-houses,  hovels  of  laborers 
and  gypsies  that  make  up  the  ill-smelling  sub 
urb.  A  series  of  clean,  broad  docks  adjoin 
the  river  promenade  of  the  city,  of  which 
they  are  not  a  bad  continuation,  for  work 
goes  on  there  with  the  same  languor  as  play 
proceeds  in  the  aristocratic  paseo.  We 
watched  a  vessel  one  morning  loading  with 
hogsheads  of  sherry,  and  by  breakfast  time 
scarce  a  dozen  of  the  hooped  sunlight  had 
been  trundled  into  the  hold.  The  navvies 
looked  half  asleep,  and  the  tars  wholly  so,  as 
if  the  sovereignty  of  the  Guadalquivir  was 
not  to  be  disputed,  even  at  this  busy  port, 
and  by  these  rough  seamen. 

Suddenly,  the  yellow  silence  was  broken. 
A  loud  splash  indicated  that  the  river-god 
was  claiming  a  human  sacrifice.  The  truck- 
ers left  their  work  and  ran  down  to  the  edge. 
The  vessels  that  lay  moored  or  anchored  in 
the  stream  leaped  wide  awake.  Men  ran  up 
the  rigging ;  heads  popped  out  of  port  holes 
and  over  sides;  the  banks  were  thronged, 
and  the  bridge  parapet  beaded  with  eyes,  all 
staring  at  a  spot  in  the  flood,  where  they  saw 
what  seemed  to  be  an  arm  battling  with  the 
current.  For  a  few  minutes  the  spectators 
preserved  a  ghastly  silence,  but  at  the  sight 
cf  a  swaying  head,  topped  with  brown  curls, 
that  emerged  from  the  wave,  they  set  up  a 


IN    SEVILLE. 


87 


shout  of  encouragement,  following  it  with 
a  confusion  of  orders,  directions  and  prayers 
for  the  safety  of  the  buffeter.  Owing  to  the 
blinding  reflection  of  the  sun  by  the  sand 
colored  river,  no  one  could  determine  the 
sex  or  age  of  the  swimmer.  One  group  held 
that  he  was  a  boy  ;  another,  a  man  ;  while  a 
third  group  challenged  these,  pointed  to  the 
long,  curly  hair  now  distinctl}^  visible,  and 
pronounced  that  the  person  in  peril  was  a 
woman.  The  swimmer's  awkward  move- 
ment seemed  to  support  this  opinion,  which 
spread  among  the  crowd,  and  powerfully 
increased  their  anxiety.  At  length,  the  ob- 
ject of  so  many  shrieks,  commands  and 
prayers  gained  the  sloping  wharf,  and,  climb- 
ing up  wearily,  revealed  itself  to  be  a  dog,  a 
long,  gavint  perro,  which  hastened  to  intrench 
behind  a  fort  of  hogsheads  and  lick  itself 
dry.  The  spectators  looked  at  each  other 
sheepishly  -then  laughed  spontaneously,  as 
a  Spanish  crowd  rarely  laughs ;  but  this  was 
too  much  for  their  surly  dignity,  and  they 
all  knocked  off  work  for  the  day. 

The  lover  of  wide  spreading  views  may  be 
repaid  by  an  hour  on  this  bridge.  It  affords 
a  good  picture  of  Seville,  with  a  panoramic 
glimpse  of  the  slightly  undulating  country 
that  stretches  north  for  miles.  But  the  sun 
burns   down  upon  it  hot  and   cruel.     Even 


88 


IN   SEVILLE. 


the  Guadalquivir,  which  is  more  like  the 
sun's  creature  than  the  moon's,  at  this  point 
seems  to  long  to  beat  off  his  fierce  kisses^ 
and  escape  to  the  cool  shadowy  turns  of  its 
channel,  where  the  river  winds  throusrh  the 
Delicias.  Most  strangers  will  hasten  with 
like  speed  to  follow  the  same  course,  leaving 
the  gas  works,  the  bridge,  the  vessels  of  com- 
merce— whatever  lends  justice  to  the  claim 
Seville  sets  up  to  be  a  modern  city — to  broad 
daylight,  while  they  seek  antiquity  under 
the  shade  trees  of  the  quay.  They  have  not 
far  to  go  before  coming  to  a  tower,  where 
surely  they  may  drop  the  burden  of  the 
present,  if  the  names  of  Caesar  and  Sertorius 
open  a  well  of  time  deep  enough  to  drown  it. 
From  this  venerable  Torre  del  Oro,  that 
throws  a  broken  vermilion  image  on  the 
water,  we  used,  like  Parizade,  to  fill  a  vase 
with  the  golden  water  of  antiquity,  and  bear 
it  carefully  through  the  labyrinthian  streets. 
Like  the  devoted  sister  in  that  Arabian  tale, 
we  used,  with  pious  hand,  to  sprinkle  the 
broken  flag-stones  and  cracked  portals  until 
they  teemed  again  with  the  life  of  the  thir- 
teenth century.  So  we  discovered  the  lofty 
ancient  house  of  the  Ulloa's,  and  by  means 
of  the  magic  drops  re-opened  the  transverse 
passage,  where  the  offended  governor  lost 
his  life  by  Juan  Tenorio's  sword.     We  could 


^ 


IN    SEVILLE. 


89 


never  transport  a  sufficient  quantity  of  the 
precious  fluid  to  release  the  stones  of  a  quar- 
ter, or  a  street ;  either  the  vase  was  too  small 
or  we  sprinkled  unwisely,  or  an  accident 
dashed  it  from  our  hands.  From  one  cause 
or  another  we  were  continually  dropping 
back  into  our  own  century.  Yet  I  think  we 
enjoyed  this  confusion  of  epochs  more  than 
a  complete  success.  Ours  would  have  been 
the  contusion,  if  the  threads  of  yesterday  and 
to-day  had  really  been  untangled.  The 
time  worn  and  weather  stained  houses — loftv 
and  low,  in  picturesque  propinquity — the 
dark  and  mysterious  wynds  ;  their  names  as 
Guzman  el  Bueno :  the  infrequent  passen- 
gers hugging  the  shady  side — what  imper- 
fectly formed  and  almost  effaced  images  of 
more  than  half  forgotten  names  and  deeds 
kept  crowding  back  from  childhood's  library 
of  tale  and  history,  seduced  out  of  the  void 
by  these  circumstances !  How  many  persons 
we  had  dimly  read  of,  how  many  events  we 
had  never  understood,  now  stirred  in  their 
graves  like  friends  we  had  lost,  and  advent- 
ures we  had  gone  through  ! 

This,  I  take  to  be  the  essence  of  an  old 
city's  charm. 

Progressing  thus  in  the  character  of  Pay- 
nim,  or  Christian— it  did  not  matter  which, 
so  long  as  we  remained  a  few  thousand  years 


^m 


IN    SEVILLE. 


91 


90 


IN    SEVILLE. 


old — we  hunted  for  and  found,  in  the  streets 
of  the  Old  Inquisition,  the  garden  door  ^ 
through  which  beautiful  Estrella  was  tohave 
been  abducted ;  we  loitered  in  the  dusky 
streets  behind  the  Archbishop's  palace,  all 
solemn  as  cathedral  aisles ;  we  lingered  long 
in  that  quarter,  which  was  distinguished  by 
its  aristocratic  and  churchly  discretion,  and 
besought  iron  gates  and  latticed  windows  to 
yield  their  jealously  guarded  secrets.  One 
of  the  streets  of  this  quarter  grew  half  com- 
municative and  friendly.  It  never  told  us  its 
name,  nor  its  precise  situation,  nor  could  we 
find  out  these  things  for  ourselves,  when, 
subsequently,  we  began  to  traverse  it  every 
day.  The  most  we  could  learn  about  it  was 
that  it  was  neighbor  to  a  street  called  the 
Bottle  of  Water,  lined  with  wine  shops  and 
a  thoroughfare  for  drunkards.  At  the  ter- 
minus of  this  street,  that  retained  for  months 
its  incognito,  we  stood  one  afternoon,  and  ran 
our  eyes  carelessly  over  the  abutting  build- 
ing. It  resembled,  in  some  degree,  an  Italian 
palace,  and  seemed  to  wear  an  aspect  of 
injured  dignity  at  being  thus  indifferently 
surveyed.  Inquiring  the  name  of  the  house 
from  a  passer,  he  told  us  it  was  the  Casa 
Carasa, 

We  had  looked  so  many  times  in  vain  for 
the   Casa  Carasa,   that  now   the  house  had 


come  to  us,  as  it  were,  we  rang  the  bell  at 
once,  and  did  not  stop  to  think  of  the  diffi- 
culty of  making  ourselves  known  to  stran- 
gers, or  to  weigh  the  scruples  of  shyness, 
which  keep  tourists  out  of  interesting  houses. 
A  stout,  middle-aged  priest  unlocked  the 
iron  reja,  and  admitted  us  with  a  gracious 
air,  before  we  had  time  to  explain  why  we 
had  called. 

Following  him  w^e  went  up  a  few  steps 
into  a  passage  screened  off  by  a  second 
ornamental  door,  and  passing  through,  we 
looked  into  the  noble  patio  of  the  dwelling, 
with  its  famous  pillars  and  medallions.  This 
patio  is  very  lofty,  and  without  an  awning, 
and  owing  to  the  light  and  elegant  pillars 
which  support  three  tiers  of  loggias,  it  seems 
larger  than  it  is.  The  first  floor  columns 
have  capitals  of  very  delicate  medallions 
^  copied  closely  from  Italian  work  ;  the  second 
floor  shafts  are  said  to  resemble  in  detail  and 
general  design  the  style  of  the  Romanesque 
architecture,  while  the  upper  gallery  is  more 
closely  wrought  in  engaged  shafts  carved  to 

the  eaves. 

The  architect — his  name  is  lost  in  the 
limbo  of  mediaeval  artists— has  carried  his 
art  beyond  the  court-yard  to  the  loggias,  and 
made  of  the  latter  a  continuation  of  out-of- 
doors.     By  the  combination  of  two   styles, 


V    • 


92 


IN    SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


93 


which  might  seem  irreconcilable,  the  simple 
Gothic  and  the  airy  Mudejar,  he  has  charmed 
away  any  thought  of  a  roof.  In  these  loggias 
the  visitor  receives  the  impression  that  he  is 
in  a  garden — a  subdued  priestly  garden.  The 
rooms  around  the  portico,  of  which  he 
catches  glimpses  through  open  doors,  seem 
to  be  deeper  recesses,  arbors  of  denser  shade. 
They  were  rooms,  however,  and  we  were 
guided  through  them  by  the  priest  who  ad- 
mitted us,  and  who  manifested  great  patience 
while  we  examined  everything  curious.  He 
confessed,  at  the  start,  that  he  had  no  accu- 
rate information  concerning  the  house  to  im- 
part ;  but  many  rooms  remained  untouched 
by  the  restorer,  and  they  spoke  for  them- 
selves and  commanded  our  admiration.  A 
small  room  in  particular,  one  of  a  suite  which 
had  formed  the  first  owner's  oratory,  library 
and  bed-chamber,  was  as  beautiful  as  any 
spot  to  be  seen  now  in  the  Alhambra.  It 
was  tiled  half  way  up  to  the  ceiling  with 
azulejo  as  dazzling  as  on  the  day  it  was  laid. 
The  roof  was  of  artesonado,  in  a  fine  and 
delicate  pattern,  without  pendentives,  and 
the  floor  was  a  charming  specimen  of  Moorish 
tile  work.  The  priest  told  us  this  had  the 
name  of  being  the  last  pure  Morisco  work  in 
Spain,  having  been  finished  jgst  before  the 
exodus  of  those  clever  craftsmen. 


i 


The  other  rooms  of  this  suite  were  larger 
and  obstructed  with  furniture,  some  of  which 
boasted  fine  carving  of  Scriptural  scenes  that 
would  suit  a  churchly  taste.  We  inspected 
them,  and  were  then  invited  to  return  down 
the  portico  and  visit  a  corresponding  suite 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  entrance  way. 
It  suited  us  better,  however,  to  sit  outside 
and  study  the  court-yard  and  loggia  from 
this  new  point  of  view.  In  fact,  the  mere 
act  of  looking  at  a  beautiful  building,  of 
which  we  had  read  little  or  nothing,  was 
very  refreshing. 

One  member  of  our  party  sighed  and 
remarked,  that  if  he  had  his  way,  he  would 
choose  this  house  for  his  residence  in  Seville, 
with  the  portico  for  a  lounging  place,  and 
the  rich,  dusky  room  we  had  visited  for  a 
sleeping  chamber.  The  priest  immediately 
responded  that  he  might  do  so  if  he  were 
serious,  for  the  Carasa  was  a  casa  de  hiiespedes, 
and  he  was  himself  a  boarder.  To  prove  his 
assertion,  he  carried  us  off  to  the  comedor, 
where  a  motherly  Senora  was  superintend- 
ing the  laying  of  the  cloth  for  dinner,  and 
she  explained  politely,  but  with  characteristic 
Spanish  indifference,  her  willingness  to  enter- 
tain us.  Returning  with  speed  to  the  calle 
O'Donnell,  w^e  held  our  second  interview 
with  Mariana,  who  came  down   dressed  in 


I  M 


r 


■  i 


94 


IN   SEVILLE. 


the  same  pink  calico  gown  she  had  worn 
when  we  saw  her  before.  Emilio  packed  up 
our  belongings.  Margarita  was  not  visibly 
affected  by  our  departure,  but  responded 
"  Con  Dios  ?  "  as  calmly  as  if  we  were  merely 
crossing  the  street.  Then,  like  belated  birds, 
we  flew  from  the  wintry  pickings  of  Mariana's 
puchcro  to  the  bountiful  spring  of  the  Casa 
Carasa. 

That  is  equivalent  to  saying  we  had  plenty 
to  eat  there,  and  gross  as  the  acknowledg- 
ment mav  read,  it  is  true  that  we  remember 
the  Carasa  more  kindly  for  the  excellent 
table  it  provided  than  for  its  poetic  archi- 
tecture. Man  cannot  live  on  stones,  even 
though  they  enclose  shadowy  porticoes  and 
Moorish  chambers.  But  we  continued  to 
delight  in  them,  because  the  panecillo  and 
higada  never  lost  their  excellence.  Oh,  the 
gladness  of  the  Spanish  breakfast !  We  never 
realized  it  until  we  came  to  the  Casa  Carasa. 
The  thick,  warm  chocolate  and  delicious 
small  rolls  that  the  fat  cook.  Dona  Julita, 
brought  up  with  her  own  hand.  She  was 
fifty  years  old,  but  she  had  the  youngest 
vocabulary.  She  called  us  her  sons,  and  she 
woke  us  up  by  patting  the  pillow  with  one 
hand,  while  with  the  other  she  held  out  the 
rich  cup,  coaxing  us  with  soothing  words  to 
drink.     Dona  Julita  came  and  went  with  the 


I 


IN    SEVILLE. 


95 


rosy  flush  of  dawn,  so  far  as  we  were   con- 
cerned,  but  the   plenty  of  the  dinner-table 
proved  that  her  labors  did  not  end  there. 
When  the  hour  approached  for  the  principal 
meal  we  did  not  strain  to  be  down  early,  as 
w^had  done  at  Mariana's.     The  boarders  of 
the   Carasa   were    not    cadets   and   medical 
students,  and  dinner  went  forward  there  in 
a  stately  archiepiscopal  fashion.     There  was 
another  reason  besides  Julita  for  these  pleasant 
conditions.     We  were  breathing  a  churchly 
atmosphere;  for,  as  befitted  the  memory  of 
Canon  Pinero,  priests  were  in  the  majority 
at  what  had  once  been  his  board.     The  cura, 
a  licentiate  who  had  read  Corderius,  a  choir 
chaplain,    and    two    theological    students- 
brothers— represented    the    Church    in   this 
little   huespedes.     The  laity  had   but  three 
examples— a  banker,  who  had  his  counting- 
room    in    the    neighborhood,    and   the   two 
Americans.     The    curate    sat    at  the   chief 
place    of  the   table,   and    directed  the  con- 
versation.     He  had  read  much,   both  in  old 
and  modern  books,  and  his  pure  Castilian 
accent  gave  to  his  talk  a  style  that  we  found 
a  little  lofty  at  times,  but  generally  pleasant. 
Of  the  other  ecclesiastics,  the  chaplain  was  a 
handsome  man  of  thirty,  who  dispensed  in 
^  dress,  as  far  as  he  dared,  with  the  badges  of 
his  office,   and  in  speech  showed  an  equal 


96 


IN    SEVILLE. 


desire  to  talk  like  a  man  of  the  world.     The 
licentiate,  on  the  contrary,  in  gravity  of  con- 
versation   and    deportment,    was    a    model 
churchman.     He   was   good    and    dry,   and 
should  have  lived  in  the  days  when  religion 
was  religion.     He  was  a  foil  for  the  other 
two,  who  seemed  to  have  made  a  close  study 
of  the  arts  of  rendering  themselves   agree- 
able.    They    spoke    with    those   Andaluzas 
voices,  which  are  the  richest  and  most  poet- 
ical voices  in  the  world,  and  are  the  only  tones 
that  sound  more  musical  in   masculine  than 
in  feminine  throats.     Had  other  things  been 
unequal,  I   think  we  would  have   remained 
at  the  Carasa,  in  order  to  enjoy  as  long  as 
possible  the  melodious  tones  of  the  priests. 
Sharing   this  cloistral  pension   with    these 
skirted  companions,  we  scarce  expected  to 
listen  to  tales  of  love.     The  cadet  and  his 
comrades  remained  outside,   and    the   little 
god  surely  had  enough  to  do  to  attend  to 
their  flirtations,  without  troubling  the  hearts 
which  beat  under  the  habit  of  religion.     But 
we  had  not  been  domiciled  long  at  the  Carasa 
before  the  younger  of  the  two  theological 
students,   who  had    quickly    put    himself  en 
rapport  with   the   traveled    Americans,    con- 
vinced  us  by  his   tale   that   Cupid   does,  in 
truth,  wing  a  closer  flight  to  Seville  than  to  ' 
other  cities  of  the  world.     He  was  in  love, 


IN    SEVILLE. 


97 


? 


I. 


i 


and  begged  us  to  advise  him  how  to  throw 
off  soutane  and  bands  before  he  had  fairly 
put  them  on. 

But  let  me  begin  at  the  beginning.  The 
brothers  were  the  only  children  of  a  wealthy 
candle  manufacturer  of  Madrid,  whose  heart 
had  been  lighted  to  religion  perhaps  by  his 
own  tapers.  At  any  rate,  he  was  devout, 
and  wished  to  give  both  sons  to  the  Church. 
Therefore,  he  placed  them  in  a  monastic 
seminary  near  Seville,  in  order  to  remove 
them  from  chance  encounters  with  worldly 
Madrid  friends.  In  the  monastery  the 
younger  brother  had  proved  the  more  ex- 
emplary ;  he  was  quite  happy  for  the  space 
of  a  year,  reciting,  or  reading  in  turns  with 
his  comrades,  the  Offices  and  the  Breviary. 
In  the  beginning  of  their  second  year  the 
elder  brother  was  convicted  in  one  of  the 
petty  sins  that  the  seminary  scholars  were 
fond  of  committing,  which  was  reported  to 
his  father.  He  came  and  carried  his  sons  to 
the  curate,  a  personal  friend,  and  left  them  in 
his  charge  at  the  Casa  Carasa,  to  remain  until 
the  priest  thought  it  wise  to  restore  them  to 
the  seminary. 

The  change  proved  beneficial  to  the  elder 
brother.  Whether  he  really  began  to  love 
the  Church  for  its  own  sake,  or  in  the  ponij)- 
ous  society  of  the  lords  of  the  Church  saw 


98 


IN    SEVILLE. 


afar  off  a  mitre  and  a  crozier,  the  result  was 
the  same,  and  he  devoted  himself  assiduously 
to  Thomas  a  Kempis. 

The  effect  on  Cesario,  the  younger  son, 
hitherto  so  good  and  pious,  was  vastly  differ- 
ent. On  a  certain  High  Mass,  which  all 
Sevillians  attend  in  the  national  costume,, 
while  he  sat  in  the  coro,  occasionally  lending 
his  voice  to  the  service,  a  girl  came  in  and 
knelt  down  quite  near  him.  He  might  have 
put  his  hand  through  the  wide  interstices  of 
the  carvings  and  touched  her  on  the  shoulder. 

At  first  he  only  noticed  how  well  the  black 
silk  basquina  and  the  mantilla  of  black  lace 
became  her.  Then  he  perceived  that  her 
hair  was  of  beautiful  reddish-brown  color, 
and  that  her  eyes,  which  sometimes  she 
raised,  feeling  his  upon  her,  were  brown, 
and  large,  and  speaking.  He  had  not  turned 
many  times  from  contemplating  those  brown 
eyes  back  to  the  missal  before  the  letters  were 
blurred,  and  the  book  trembled  in  his  grasp. 
Realizing  that  he  had  lost  the  worshipping 
spirit,  he  laid  aside  the  book  and  boldly  con- 
tinued to  gaze. 

When  the  young  priest  saw  her  again  she 
did  not  wear  the  dress  of  the  country,  but 
was  attired  in  the  last  fashion  from  Paris. 
Nevertheless,  he  recognized  her,  and  because 
the  bitter  tears  he  had  shed  in  the  interval 


IN    SEVILLE. 


, 


9^ 


had  not  washed  out  a  line  of  her  image  from 
his  heart,  he  manfully  determined  to  weep  no 
more,  but  to  love  her  in  secret  until  he  could 
love  her  openly  and  without  reproach.  That 
would  be  when  he  was  no  longer  pretending 
to  study  for  the  priesthood ;  but  he  told  us 
that  before  making  up  his  mind  to  disappoint 
his  father  he  had  suffered  greatly,  not  that 
he  feared  his  father's  anger,  but  he  dreaded 
the  anger  of  God. 

We  assured  him — somewhat  irreligiously 
1  am  afraid — that  he  need  not  suffer  on  that 
score,  and  we  counseled  him  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it  to  the  curate.  He  promised  to 
act  on  this  advice.  For  two  days  he  avoided 
us,  and  appeared  to  be  in  mental  torture ;. 
but,  on  the  third,  he  rose  from  his  bed 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  knock  at  the 
curate's  door.  He  confessed  eveiry^thing  to 
him  with  sobs,  but  with  a  determination  to- 
stand  by  his  purpose  that  no  argument  could 
shake.  He  related  the  points  of  the  conver- 
sation to  us  next  morning.  Soon  afterwards 
his  father  arrived  and  took  him  home  to 
Madrid.  I  do  not  know  if  the  sequel  was 
that  happy  ending  most  people  like  to  their 
romances  ;  but  even  if  he  found  the  girl  with 
the  red-brown  hair  engaged,  or  unable  to  love 
him,  I  am  sure  Casario  found  another.  He 
was  of  the  stuff  to  find  another.     To  the  last 


I 


I 


100 


IN    SEVILLE. 


I  repeated  my  inquiries  to  the  curate,  who 
always  suavely  replied  that  his  young  friend 
was  assisting  in  the  father's  business — candle- 
making — and  reported  to  be  happy  in  the 
choice  he  had  made. 


IX. 


BOTH  curate  and  chaplain,  who  led  the 
talk  at  our  dinner  table,  were  not  so 
liberal  in  deed  as  in  word.  When  the  day  of 
Saint  Anthony  fell,  they  refused  to  keep  the 
festival  with  us,  and  they  spoke  v^ith  con- 
siderable disdain  of  the  preparations  made 
by  the  common  people  of  Seville  for  cele- 
brating it,  telling  us  that  we  should  see  on 
this  occa^on  nothing  but  *'  tonterias  Espafio- 
las" — Spanish  follies.  In  fact,  in  becoming 
the  darling  "  San  Anton "  of  the  people, 
Saint  Anthony  lost  much  of  his  dignity. 
Reading  his  life  by  Athanasius,  and  listening 
to  the  legends  told  of  him  by  a  Spanish 
peasant,  it  is  difficult  to  understand  that 
both  refer  to  the  same  person.  The  church 
biographer  represents  him  as  the  oracle  of  the 
Nile,  whose  relics  worked  many  miraculous 
cures  in  victims  suffering  with  "  a  pestilen- 
tial erysipelatous  distemper  called  the  sacred 


IN   SEVILLE. 


lOI 


lire,"  and  as  a  holy  man,  who,  in  his  lifetime* 
wore  only  a  coarse  shift  of  hair  and  never 
washed  his  body.  Athanasius  tells  a  great 
deal  more,  but  the  common  imagination  has 
seized  upon  the  last  point,  and  rejected  the 
rest.  He  never  washed  his  body,  conse- 
quently Anthony  is  a  saint  after  their  own 
hearts. 

The  Sevillians  do  not  doubt  that  Anthony 
is  now  in  heaven,  but  because  he  possessed 
no  gold  or  silver  on  earth  they  suppose  that 
he  remains  poor  above,  and  wears  there  a 
second  rate,  a  tarnished  halo.  On  that  ac- 
count the  people  love  him  familiarly,  and  no 
one  is  too  poor  and  common  to  creep  under 
the  mantle  of  this  humble  patron.  It  is  even 
spread  wide  enough  to  include  the  brute 
creation,  and,  for  upwards  of  a  century,  the 
festival  of  "San  Anton"  has  been  devoted 
to  blessing  the  animals :  horses,  cows,  mules 
and  asses,  and  to  the  sale  of  charms  for  their 
preservation  from  disease. 

We  were  told  if  we  did  not  choose  to  walk 
to  the  convent  church  in  the  suburb,  where 
the  function  referred  to  is  performed  for 
convenience  of  farmers  and  muleteers,  we 
could  still  see  many  curious  sights  by  going 
to  the  church  of  Santa  Catalina,  in  the  north- 
ern part  of  the  city.  Our  way  there  was 
made  difficult  by  the  throng  pushing  in  the 


h 


!  t| 


i 


102 


IN    SEVILLE. 


same  direction,  or  battling  to  chaffer  with 
itinerant  venders  who  had  deserted  their 
customary  stands  and  taken  to  the  streets 
by  which  the  crowd  must  pass.  Every  variety 
of  cripple  was  propelling  himself,  as  rapidly 
as  his  abbreviations  would  permit,  to  the 
church  door,  in  order  to  be  in  time  for  the 
procession  of  animals.  Their  rags,  and  the 
motley  costumes  of  the  crowd  made  a  true 
picture  ;  as  loud  to  the  eyes  as  to  the  ear 
were  the  barking  of  dogs,  the  clatter  of 
tongues,  the  squalling  of  children. 

Reaching  the  plaza  Ponce  de  Leon,  there 
seemed  to  be  not  even  crowding  room  for 
the  new  comers,  and  a  dozen  soldiers  stationed 
to  preserve  an  open  space  around  an  oriental 
fountain  near  the  church  door,  were  having 
a  hard  time  of  it.  We  were  pushed  forward 
by  people  who  came  after  us,  until  we  were 
drawn  into  the  current  of  devotees,  and 
entered  the  church  through  a  low,  sombre 
portal,  obstructed  by  the  bodies  and  crutches 
of  the  mendicants  who  lined  the  walls. 

The  majority  of  the  worshippers  in  the 
church  were  women,  and  while  many  were 
kneeling  before  a  table  at  which  presided 
a  priest  muttering  an  ave,  and  crossing  them 
with  a  bone  of  St.  Anthony,  more  were  pros- 
trate against  the  boxes  of  the  confessional, 
placed  in    the    vicinity    of    chapels   and    in 


IN    SEVILLE. 


103 


angles  of  the  wall.  Another  large  group  of 
women  knelt  on  the  floor  before  the  Capilla 
Major — a  Moorish-looking  high  altar — with 
their  arms  stretched  out  as  in  wild  entreaty, 
an  attitude  they  held  for  a  long  time  together. 

Meanwhile  there  was  a  procession  of  tapers 
all  round  the  church,  chanting  from  chapel 
to  chapel,  and  pausing  before  each  for  pray- 
ers. As  the  priests  and  acolytes  lingered  in 
the  dark  recess  of  an  altar  with  the  tapers, 
reflected  like  flaming  hearts  by  the  metal 
railings,  or  marched  slowly  across  the  church, 
where  the  tapers  twinkled  like  stars  under 
the  noble  roof  of  the  nave,  the  effect  was 
solemn — solemn  enough  to  overcome  the 
repugnance  excited  by  the  friar  mumbling 
his  spells  at  the  door. 

There  was  no  solemnity  in  the  ceremony 
as  it  went  forward  out  of  doors.  At  the 
mouth  of  the  street  that  turned  into  the 
plaza,  as  many  as  fifty  cabs  were  drawn  up, 
and  the  drivers,  with  interjections  and  ob- 
jurgations, were  unharnessing  their  animals 
and  leading  them  through  the  people  up  to 
the  fountain.  There  a  number  of  muleteers 
and  asses  had  stood  for  two  hours  in  the 
broiling  sun  waiting  for  the  signal.  Some 
lackevs  came  up  at  the  last  moment,  leading 
with  difficulty  the  beautiful  English  horses 
of  Sevillian  noblemen   through   the   line  of 


5=-« 


/ 


104 


IN    SEVILLE. 


spectators,  who  swayed  forward  and  back, 
and  uttered  admiring  exclamations,  to  the 
great  terror  of  the  animals.  The  lackeys 
were  swearing  like  pirates  ;  the  cab  drivers 
and  muleteers  shouted  out  unfavorable  com- 
parisons between  their  own  tranquil  beasts- 
some  lying  down,  others  standing  motion- 
less—and the  handsome,  frisky  horses  of  the 
aristocrats. 

At  precisely  noon  the  procession  began  to 
move  forward  from  the  fountain  to  a  window 
in  the  church,  which  an  old  padre,  with  a 
very  red  face,  had  thrown  open.  As  the 
animals  passed  under  him  he  sprinkled  holy 
water  upon  them.  The  horses  and  mules 
started  back  in  astonishment  and  displeas- 
ure, the  nervous  beasts  of  the  region  giving 
the  lackeys  great  trouble  to  keep  them  from 
dashing  through  the  ranks  of  sightseers.  The 
asses  only  manifested  themselves  to  be  good 
Catholics,  and  received  the  holy  drops  with 
brays  of  refreshment. 

In  addition  to  the  blessing  of  hi^  animal, 
each  muleteer  brought  a  sack  of  grain  to  be 
consecrated  by  the  father.  This  he  did  by 
moistening  it  with  holy  water  and  stirring  it 
with  a  relic  of  St.  Anthony.  He  then  returned 
it,  and  received  for  his  pains  a  peseta— twenty 
cents— not  dear  for  a  bag  of  grain  warranted 
to  cure  any  disease  beast-flesh  is  heir  to. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


105 


We  did  not  linger  long  to  watch  this 
spectacle,  which  is  more  amusing  than  edify- 
ing, but  turned  to  go,  and  began  to  battle 
with  the  human  waves  which  had  poured 
into  the  plaza  in  an  incessant  turbid  stream 
since  an  early  hour,  and  were  still  pouring 
in.  The  late  comers  were  the  near  relatives 
of  the  unwashed  and  ragged  people  we  had 
seen  in  the  morning,  and  the  whole  assem- 
blage, as  we  passed  through  it,  presented  but 
a  confusion  of  grime  and  tatters.  Infecting 
all  like  a  poisonous  gas  generated  by  refuse, 
rose  the  evil  odor  which  one  never  escapes 
in  Spain — the  breath  of  the  Iberian  peasant,, 
a  mouldy  breath  compounded  of  garlic,  vile 
tobacco,  and  decayed  teeth,  and  here  exhaled 
by  the  multitude  with  deadly  power.  Till 
we  had  fled  from  this  effluvium  to  the  purer 
atmosphere  of  a  balcony  overlooking  the 
square,  we  could  not  distinguish  in  the 
unclean  crowd  its  characteristic  and  pictur^ 
esque  features,  so  real  is  the  relation,  in 
regard  to  pleasure,  which  exists  between  the 
eye  and  the  nose. 

Up  there  the  people  recovered  pictur- 
esqueness.  The  dirt  returned  to  simple 
dirt  again,  and  no  longer  seemed  unsavory 
squalor,  nameless  uncleanness  representing 
moral  viieness.  From  that  vantage  point  we 
could  admire  them,  and  we  would   not — if 


I  I 


\ 


\ 


io6 


IN    SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


107 


?! 
It 


M 


we  had  dared  to  take  such  a  liberty  with  the 
noble  Spaniards  below — have  washed  a  single 
grimy  check,  patched  up  a  solitary  colored 
rag,  or  mended  a  decomposing  zapato.  The 
missionary  spirit  which  had  dawned  in  our 
breasts  faded  out  again,  and  left  us  simple 
travelers,  wishing  to  keep  the  people  in  their 
filth  and  ignorance  for  a  spectacle.  What 
crimes  committed  against  civilization  must 
tourists  answer  for ! 

Now  that  the  crowd  had  reached  its  desti- 
nation it  was  not  so  noisy  as  when  traversing 
the  calle  del  Sol  and  other  streets  leading 
thither.  Though  inclined  to  mock  while 
a  muleteer  passed  them  on  the  way  to  the 
priest  with  his  animal,  they  preserved,  for 
the  most  part,  a  heavy  silence  entirely  strange 
to  a  festival.  There  was  no  jostling,  no  con- 
certed shouting ;  however  closely  packed 
among  his  fellows  the  individual  may  have 
been,  he  preserved  his  individuality,  and 
waited  for  a  moment  of  silence  before  utter- 
ing his  comment,  to  ensure  its  being  heard. 
Some  men  beneath  our  balcony  looked  up 
and  saluted  the  '' impertinente  curiosos,"  as 
if  they  had  divined  the  motive  which  took  us 
out  of  nose-shot.  1  wondered  why  these 
people  had  gathered  to  witness  the  cere- 
mony, and  why  they  observed  the  feast, 
which  is  a  voluntary  one,  when  they  seemed 


I 


to  be  unable  to  derive  pleasure  from  it. 
There  surely  is  no  crowd  at  once  so  surly 
and  quiet  as  a  Spanish  crowd,  and  I  imagine 
their  capacity  for  being  ill-tempered  and  sub- 
missive at  the  same  time  is  what  has  made 
them,  despite  fierce  intermittent  revolutions, 
the  most  docile  puppets  of  despotism  history 
shows. 

In  the  evening  we  went  to  the  Alameda 
del  Hercule,  where  we  were  told  we  should 
see  the  best  of  the  fun.  This  Alameda  is  sit- 
uated in  a  poor  quarter  of  Seville,  composed 
almost  wholly  of  laboring  men  and  mechanics. 
The  streets  which  end  in  the  broken  pave 
ment  of  the  plaza  have  ugly  and  slatternly 
doorways,  and  every  sixth  house  is  a  filthy 
**  public."  The  great  quadrilateral  plaza 
appears  extremely  poverty  stricken,  and  in 
the  day-time  it  shows  an  appalling  degree  of 
dirt  and  squalor,  besides  being  pervaded  by 
a  horrible  smell.  In  the  centre  of  the  Alameda 
is  a  battered  Moorish  well-curb,  and  in  lines 
down  two  sides  of  the  place  stand  stone 
pedestals  and  columns,  supporting  statues 
that  could  give  enigmatical  points  to  the 
Sphynx  of  the  desert,  so  broken,  so  chipped, 
so  indistinguishable  as  to  sex  are  they.  The 
houses  fronting  on  the  Hercule  consist  of 
but  one  poor  story,  but  they  have  flower-pots 
in   the    balconies    and    against    the    walls. 


io8 


IN    SEVILLE. 


I    = 


H 


^1 


Previous  visits  to  this  gaunt  and  hippocratic 
Alameda  had  not  possessed  us  in  favor  of  it 
as  a  theatre  of  diversion.  Night,  however, 
served  as  a  charitable  mantle  to  cover  up  the 
painful  decay  of  the  place,  and  numerous 
bonfires,  built  on  the  ragged  pavement,  for 
the  time  exorcised  its  unfragrant  demon. 

These  bonfires  are  the  marks  of  the  festi- 
val, though  their  relation  to  the  popular 
**San  Anton"  is  vague,  and  the  people  that 
light  them  here  every  year  have  forgotten, 
if  they  ever  knew  it,  the  origin  of  the  custom. 
It  has  come  down,  perhaps,  from  the  Egyp- 
tian St.  Anthony's  victory  over  the  ''sacred 
fire."  Formerly  every  family  in  the  barrio 
had  the  ambition  to  light  a  fire  of  its  own, 
but  latterly  the  custom  has  died  out,  so  far 
as  families  are  concerned,  unless  the  groups 
of  hoydenish  girls  and  surly  men  who  keep 
up  the  practice  are  to  be  considered  as  fam- 
ilies in  embryo. 

It  was  dark  as  pitch  in  the  narrow  street 
we  took  to  the  Alameda,  but  as  we  drew  near 
we  heard  a  great  humming  aud  buzzing,  like 
innumerable  bees,  and  waves  of  light  from 
the  torches  swept  down  the  street  at  intervals, 
illuminating  the  portals,  and  going  out  sud- 
denly, like  a  conflagration  half  under  control. 
A  heavy  asphyxiating  atmosphere  accompa- 
nied these  flashes,  burying  the  damp  freshness 


^■ 


IN    SEVILLE. 


109 


of  night  under  odors  of  smoke,  cooked  food 
and  dying  flowers.  When  we  emerged  on 
a  little  eminence,  and  surveyed  the  plaza,  it 
presented  a  kaleidoscopic  jumble  of  colors 
and  forms,  now  like  a  dark  mass,  again  bril- 
liantly lighted ;  people  jostling  each  other, 
constantly  moving,  and  apparently  inextri- 
cably entangled.  Crowds  of  faces  upturned 
with  broad  grins,  arms  that  waved  above 
them,  a  great  noise  of  talking,  laughing  and 
stamping,  formed  the  first  impression  of  a 
mob  it  would  be  wisdom  to  keep  out  of.  But, 
when  we  mingled  with  them,  we  found  less 
confusion  than  we  had  expected.  A  certain 
order  was  maintained,  and,  instead  of  being 
locked  together  motionless,  the  crowd  moved 
in  two  processions  between  the  lines  of  bon- 
fires, one  going  up  and  the  other  going  down 
the  plaza. 

Beside  the  glowing  heaps  old  women  sold 
brands,  calling  out  the  price  in  hoarse,  .alco- 
holic, disagreeable  voices,  with  a  lugubrious 
intonation.  These  the  chulos  bought  for 
their  girls — the  chulas— whom  they  drew 
out  of  the  ranks  for  a  moment  to  throw  a 
brand  on  the  fire  for  good  luck.  From  group 
to  group  light  words,  free  gestures,  a  cross 
fire  of  badinage,  passed  between  men  and 
women.  Most  of  the  latter  were  girls  of  the 
people,    and   wore    calico    dresses,    Manilla 


I  ', 


no 


IN    SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


Ill 


I 


iii 


1^ 


( 


shawls,  and  flowers  in  their  hair.  The  men, 
also,  conformed  to  one  style  of  dress,  which 
consisted  ot  tight  trousers,  short  jackets,  and 
the  soft  hats  of  the  mushroom  shape,  called 
hongo.  Not  all  of  these  men  were  of  the 
lower  classes.  Many  had  soft,  delicate  hands, 
covered  with  valuable  rings,  and  our  eyes 
testified  to  the  truth  of  what  we  had  heard, 
that  Seville  gentlemen  liked  to  amuse  them- 
selves at  the  festival  of  "San  Anton." 

By  the  light  of  the  bonfires,  and  of  torches, 
fixed  to  the  ghostly  Roman  marbles,  little 
tables  set  on  stakes,  offered  refreshments  of 
fish  and  salted  meats,  smelts  fried  in  oil, 
anchovies,  and  a  mixture  of  eggs  and  codfish, 
called  Soldados  de  Pavia.  Wine  was  sold  in 
abundance  to  quench  the  thirst  this  kind  of 
food  excited,  and  the  roisterers  drank  it 
freely.  Early  in  the  night  they  exhibited 
signs  of  intoxication.  They  fired  olives  at 
each  other,  seized  the  women's  fans,  and 
broke  them  over  their  neighbor's  head  ;  while 
extravagant  shouts,  the  crashing  of  glasses 
and  shrieks  of  coarse  laughter  indicated  that 
the  patrons  of  these  tables  were  principally 
of  the  '*  Merry  Gentry." 

Leaving  their  vicinity,  and  joining  the 
moving  throng,  we  found  that  little  booths 
had  been  erected  all  around  the  plaza,  some 
of  them  theatrical,  in  front  of  which  dingy 


persons  of  either  sex,  men  dressed  as  women 
and  women  as  men,  bawled  out  the  title  of 
the  sainete  or  tonadilla  (farce  or  musical  com- 
edy) which  would  be  played  inside,  as  well 
as  the  names  of  the  distinguished  actors  who 
would  take  part  in  them.      Hucksters  at  the 
doors  of  other  booths  cried  out  the  fabulous 
bargains  in  tinware,  shoes,  gloves,  and  every 
sort  of  wearing  apparel,  without  exhibiting 
any,  offered  within.     A  booth,  better  patron- 
ized  than  those  supplying  ordinary   wants, 
was  presided   over  by   a   villainous  looking 
man,  surrounded  by  his  court  of  barateros 
and  gamesters.     He  did   nothing   to   attract 
customers,  except  to  shuffle  from  one  hand  to 
the  other  an  ancient  pack  of  cards.  This  man*s 
face  touched  the  very  bottom  of  the  abyss. 
To  look   at   him   was    to  remember   all  the 
deeds   of   blood   one   had   ever  read  about. 
It  was  a  dreadful  face,  set,  seamed  and  almost 
grotesquely  wicked.    But  his  eyes  prevented 
it  from  being  grotesque.     They  iilone  moved 
and  gleamed  on   individual  after  individual 
in  the  passing  group',  with  a  green  light  like 
a  cat's  in  the  dark. 

Next  to  him  the  King  of  the  Gypsies,  from 
the  suburb  of  Los  Humeros,  was  not  above' 
turning  a  dishonest  penny,  to  the  disgust  of 
the  professional  guitaristas,  who  were  present 
in  force,  by  getting  up  a  dance  on  a  piece  of 


i  I 


T  J2 


IN    SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


"3 


H 


i 


i\ 


carpet  spread  down  on  the  pavement.     Much 
as   they    would    have   liked    to  protest,  the 
guitar  players  scarcely  grumbled  under  their 
breath  ;    they   feared    the    intensity   of    the 
swarthy  king's  evil  eye.     His  zingali  hung 
on  the  skirts  of  every   couple,  assuring  the 
*'  caballero  "  that  he  would  be  rich,  and  the 
"  senorita  "  that  she  would  get  a  kind  hus- 
band.    Early  in   the  evening,  or  before  the 
dances  had  fairly  begun,  these  brown  fates 
reaped  a  rich  harvest  from  the  credulity  of 
maid  and  man.     Not  that  I  think  these  Dulci- 
neas  consider  kindness  as  an  essential  attrib- 
ute to  a  husband;  they  seemed  to  belong  to 
the  class  wnich  can  endure  a  good  deal  of 
hard  usage  and  enjoy  an  occasional  domestic 
scrimmage.     If  any  illusion  of  virginal  Do- 
lores, ''Amagita  mia,"  and   modest  Spanish 
peasant   girls,    had    lasted    so  long,  St.  An- 
thony's festival  would  have  brushed  it  away 
like  a  cobweb.     In  the  corners  of  the  plaza 
we  frequently  saw  an  Andalusian  lover  give 
the  punishment  of  blows  to  his  sweetheart, 
who  received  them  with  cries,  of  course,  but 
equally,  of  course,  as  a   necessary  sequel  to . 
her   indiscriminate  ogling.     A  few  minutes 
afterwards  she  would  be  sitting  with  him  at 
a   table,    wiping   her  eyes   with    her    hand- 
kerchief,   but   tranquilly    sipping    wine.     A 
good   many   young  girls,  in    sets  of  six   or 


I 


B 


7 


«ight,  all  wearing  wide  hooped  dresses  of 
manifold  colors,  all  with  flowers  in  their  hair 
and  in  their  bosom,  passed  us  in  the  opposite 
procession,  and  tried  to  attract  our  attention 
by  look  or  word.  If  one  of  them  thought 
she  had  succeded  she  would  instantly  turn 
her  large,  impertinent,  black  eyes,  with  a 
mocking  glance,  upon  her  companions,  and, 
commiseratingly,  bid  them  *'  adios ! "  But 
there  was  more  mischievous  audacity  in  this 
than  real  boldness.  Approach  one  and  she 
would  dart  away  and  hide  behind  the  skirts 
of  her  friends.  Their  dances,  too,  which  they 
engaged  in  without  masculine  partners,  were 
modest  as  well  as  pretty.  All  these  girls, 
who  never  heard  of  the  waltz  or  the  polka, 
are  perfectly  acquainted  with  the  intricate 
dances  of  the  country.  They  love  them  pas- 
sionately, and  they  cannot  pause  within  sound 
of  a  guitar  without  suffering  St.  Vitus  of  the 
feet. 

Withdrawn  somewhat  from  the  crowd, 
leaning  against  Hercules  himself,  stands  an 
old  fellow  idly  thrumming  his  guitar.  His 
tight  trousers  are  belted  in  by  a  bright  red 
girdle.  He  wears  a  plaited  shirt  and  no 
cravat.  Under  the  hongo  hat  his  white  hair 
is  combed  down  almost  into  his  little,  twink- 
ling black  eyes.  An  old  man,  dried  and 
wrinkled,  is  this  guitarista,   but   he  handles 


§ 


114 


IN    SEVILLE. 


his  instrument  lovingly,  and  with  no  decrease 
from  the  dexterity  of  his  youth. 

''  A  dance,  girls  !  " 

Quickly  they  make  up  the  requisite  purse 
to  pay  for  their  amusement.     The  old  musi- 
cian thanks  them  with  a  deep,  grave  voice 
peculiar   to    the    aged    poor   of   Andalusia, 
assures  them  they  have  done  well  to  come 
to  him  who  can  ''  make  tables  dance,"  changes 
his  position  so  as  to  give  his  head  a  chance 
to  fall  back,  and  coughs.     Eight  girls  form 
in  two  lines,  each  one  with  castanets  in  her 
hands,  somebody  shouts  *'  Honra ! '  *  and  some- 
I  body  else  in  a  sharp,  nasal  voice,  the  voice  of 
the    Andalusian    peasant    woman,    sings    a 
seguidilla,  the  guitar  tinkles,  the  castanets 
clack,   and    the    dance   begins.     A    vibrant, 
delicious  dance  it  is— a  dance  Greek   girls 
might  have  woven  in  a  field  near  Syracuse. 
The  dancers  lifted  their  arms  and  approached 
each  other,  only  to  retreat  again;  raised  first 
one  foot  and  then  the  other,  and   displayed 
the  most  poetic  and  flexible  attitudes.     The 
guitar  and  castanets  continued  to  incite  them 
joyously  ;  the  opposing  waves  rose  and  fell, 
bent  first  to  one  side  and  then  to  the  other, 
with    many   diverse   bewitching  motions  of 
heads  and  arms.     Ah,  to  sec  these  Andalu- 
sian   witcheries  performed  aright  one  must 
see  the  girls  of  the  people  dance  them  !  They 


' 


IN    SEVILLE. 


"5 


are  not  like  the  dancers  of  the  sa/a^  who  are 
satisfied  to  mark  the  movements  and  keep 
time.  They  accent  every  posture,  and  they 
delight  to  tire  themselves  to  the  utmost  limit 
of  agility  and  grace.  They  form  a  circle 
about  an  imaginary  hat  that  has  fallen  in 
their  midst,  and,  advancing  toward  it,  each 
girl  makes  a  feint  of  picking  it  up,  caressing 
it,  holding  it  off  at  length  ;  now  taking  it  off, 
now  putting  it  on  her  head  again.  At  the 
conclusion  of  each  figure  they  join  hands 
in  a  circle,  turn  half  round,  trembling  and 
looking  at  each  other  with  humid,  ecstatic 
eyes. 

**  Ole  !  Ole  !  "  A  crowd  has  collected  about 
them,  and  utter  exclamations  like  "  Jump, 
my  pigeon,  jump  !"  or  "  Long  life  to  your 
mothers !  **  But  the  girls  hardly  hear  this 
accompaniment  to  their  movements.  They 
are  in  a  tremor  from  head  to  foot ;  they 
would  like  the  dance  to  last  forever. 

But  the  guitarista  knows  when  he  has 
earned  his  money.  He  stops  playing  in  the 
very  middle  of  a  figure.  Cunning  fellow  1 
He  expects  somebody  will  fill  the  hat  again 
in  order  to  see  the  rest.  He  miscalculates, 
for  the  girls  catch  hold  of  each  other  and  run 
away,  laughing  and  shrieking,  half-vexed, 
half-delighted,  at  having  danced  for  "  San 
Anton.** 


m 


I* 


/: 


ii6 


IN  SEVILLE. 


IN  SEVILLE. 


117 


And  at  that  instant  a  boy  on  the  other  side 
began  to  scream  Maleguenas,  with  a  voice 
that  was  changing  from  treble  to  bass. 
Thither  the  crowd  surged,  ready  to  call  down 
blessings  on  his  mother  if  the  song  pleased 
them. 

Sometimes,  we  are  told,  the  festival  breaks 
up  in  a  general  dance,  every  one  joining  in, 
girls  of  eighteen  and  women  of  eighty,'  and 
then  the  old  Alameda  offers  its  gayest  aspect 
—gayest  and  most  innocent.      The  dance  we 
had  seen  converted  us,   and  we  hastened  to 
temper  a  judgment  we  had  made  earlier.  Is  it 
not  perilous  to  offer  a  statement  about  the 
morals  of  a  people  on  the  unsure  ground  of 
observation?    To  judge  by  the  rough   talk 
and    behavior   of   these  chulas   and  majos  I 
might  have   been  led  to  write  that  the  Spain 
of  to-day  is  the  loose  Spain  of  Guzman   de 
Alfarache,  but  I  waited  a   little.     When  we 
went  away  finally  we  felt  that  a  tough  strand 
of  modern  decency  binds  up  these  customs, 
at  once   simple    and  rough,   of  old     world 
revelry.     Had  it  been  otherwise,  we   would 
have  joined  the  group  of  reformers  at  Mad- 
rid, who  esteem  the  feast  a  childish  fashion, 
worn  to  the  point  of  suppression.    I  think  by 
calling  it  a  childish   fashion   the   reformers 
unwittingly  defend  it.     Already   too   many 
innocent  pastimes   have  been  abolished,  as 


the  world  knows  by  the  added  dullness.  But 
there  is  really  no  need  to  defend  the  festival. 
It  will  endure  as  long  as  Andalusia,  for  to 
such  shreds  as  are  left  of  their  earlier  en- 
chantments— among  which  must  be  classed 
the  sports  of  "  San  Anton  " — the  Spaniards 
cling  with  peculiar  and  praiseworthy  stead- 
fastness. 


X. 


HOW  subtile  and  fleeting  are  the  charms 
of  those  abstract  things,  a  square  and  a 
street,  when  you  come  to  write  about  them  ! 
1  cannot  attribute  the  quality  of  bad  taste  to 
the  numerous  travelers  who  call  Seville  an 
uninteresting  desert ;  the  city  is  a  quiet  plain, 
with  a  wonderful  cathedral  and  a  lofty  tower 
to  accentuate  its  general  flatness.  It  makes 
no  more  lasting  impression  on  the  brain  of  a 
rapid  traveler  than  does  the  landscape  on 
the  headlight  of  a  locomotive.  To  us,  how- 
ever, who  lingered  away  the  winter  in  Seville, 
her  cathedral  and  Giralda  soon  lost  their 
prominence,  while  corners  and  triangles  of 
streets,  quaint  unpretentious  dwellings,  little 
squares,  frowned  upon  by  monotonous  walls, 
grew  dear  to  our  hearts  almost  like  features 
of  home,  and  became  our  Seville. 


11 


/ 


ii8 


IN   SEVILLE. 


Of  the  squares,  a  plaza  behind  the  cathe- 
dral, shut  in  by  the  Alcazar  and   the  arch- 
bishop's palace,  made  a  delightful  lounging 
place  on  warm  mornings.     It  had  no  attrac- 
tions in  itself ;  a  three-cornered  piece  of  sandy 
grass,  under  fortress  walls,  with  trees  set  in 
regular  rows,  that  grew  feebly,  like  Protest- 
ants in  a  Roman   Catholic  country.     Hard 
benches  without  backs  foi:med  a  sort  of  fence 
on  the  three  sides  of  the  plaza  that  was  gen- 
erally  destitute  of   human   figures.     But  it 
counted   one   constant   friend,   an   old    fruit 
woman,  who  kept  her  stall  there,  and  it  could 
confidently  expect  to  see,  some  time  during 
the  day,  a  priest  in  rusty  soutane  and  wide 
three-cornered   hat,    who  took   his   exercise 
within  its  boundaries.     Beggars  and  guitar 
players   never  came   to   this   plaza,  but  on 
Sundays  and  feast  days  a  modest  movable 
stall  was  set  up  directly  beneath  the  flying 
buttress  of  the  cathedral.     A  thin,   old  man, 
who  ought  to  h^ve  been  a  hermit,  kept  it, 
and  sold  his  wares,  or  offered  them  for  sale, 
to   the  worshippers  who  strayed  from   the 
grand  portal  and  the  orange  garden.     These 
wares  were  waxen  images  and  tapers,  pict- 
ures   of  saints,   rosaries,   crucifixes  ;   all  the 
religious  objects  used  for  funeral  ceremonies, 
as  well  as  waxen  arms,  legs,  eyes,  ears,  and 
babies,  for  offerings  at  the  shrine  of  a  popular 


IN    SEVILLE. 


119 


^aint  for  the  recovery  of  a  person  or  an 
afflicted  member  of  the  body.  A  friendly 
understanding  existed  between_this  old  man 
and  the  fruit  aunty.  When  business  was 
more  than  commonly  dull  he  went  over  to 
her  stall  and  grumbled  at  the  malevolence  of 
his  rivals  in  trade,  the  old  woman  at  the 
church  doors  who  had  driven  him  away  from 
that  coveted  stand,  and,  when  his  breath 
gave  out,  she  would  begin  to  vituperate  in 

her  turn. 

On  ordinary  days,  as  I  have  said,  the  old 
woman  alone  shared  the  plaza  with  us.  She 
was  always  there  in  the  daytime,  and  I  think 
she  slept  under  her  bit  of  awning.  It  must 
have  been  the  charm  of  the  place  that  held 
her  there,  and  not  the  love  of  gain,  for  if  she 
sells  oranges  and  mixes  sugary  drinks  in  that 
plaza  to  the  end  of  time  (and  I  suppose  she 
will  do  so  to  the  end  of  her  time)  the  profit 
can  hardly  keep  her  out  of  the  almshouse. 
In  the  season,  that  is,  in  April  and  May,  she 
makes  considerable  hay  while  the  sun  of 
English  tourists  shines.  The  thirsty  Inglesas, 
she  told  us  with  a  chuckle,  run  out  of  the 
Alcazar  straight  into  her  arms. 

The  Alcazar  made  no  such  dry  impression 
on  us,  though  we  visited  it  on  days  warmer 
than  the  New  England  June.  The  halls  of 
the  old  Moorish  palace  offered  a  better  imita- 


if 


•***"''(*■  i 


I20 


IN    SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


121 


tion  of  winter  than  all  the  rest  of  Seville^s 
buildings   combined,   and   its   vaults,  which 
some  one  has  called  the  pantheon  of  Maria 
Padilla,   were  unpleasantly  moist  and  cold. 
The  gardeners  in  attendance  never  seemed 
to  remember  that  we  had  been  there  before, 
and  when  we  returned  from  a  ramble  in  the 
formally  lovely  gardens,  they  were  sure  to 
sprinkle  us  with  water  by  means  of  an  in- 
fernal contrivance  beneath  the  pavement,  that 
has  played  its   practical  joke  on  royal'  and 
other  famous  shoes.     Then  they  met  us  at 
the  exit,  hat  off  and  Spanish  grin  on,   in  ex- 
pectation of  a  peseta.     So  we  always  came 
back  to  the  plaza  out  of  humor  with  oranges 
and   sugared    water,  or   any   sort  of   liquid 
refreshment. 

This  tiny  plaza  occupies  the  cardiac  situa- 
tion, with  reference  to  the  other  members  of 
Seville's  corporation,  being  encompassed  by 
the  Lonja,  her  belly  of  trade  ;  the  cathedral, 
her  brain;   the  Giralda,  her  right  arm,  and 
the  two  streets  which  join  here— one  march- 
ing north  through  the   city   and  the   other 
across  the  Guadalquivir  to  the  suburbs— her 
legs.     Like  a- heart,  it  pumps  the  flood  of 
life  over  the  city,  and   recovers   the  waste 
again  from  these  members,  and  no  less  like  a 
heart  that  it  beats  silently.     The  calm  brood- 
ing over  this  neighborhood  is  not   the  still- 


ness of  death.  The  portal  of  the  archbishop's 
palace  is  sometimes  quick  with  dispersing 
priests.  The  Alcazar  walls  lose  on  familiar- 
ity their  first  resemblance  to  those  of  Bal- 
clutha,  and  the  counting  room  of  the  Lonja 
seems  but  to  be  sleeping  an  enchanted  sleep, 
from  which  it  will  wake  up  to  be  the  centre 
of  busy  interests,  and  to  throb  again  with  the 
''quick  pulse  of  gain."  I  know  not  how  this 
impression  of  suspended  vitality  was  con- 
veyed by  the  dormant  plaza,  unless  the 
extravagant  tales  related  of  its  teeming  life 
in  the  Holy  Week  had  something  to  do  with 
it.  A  part  of  the  charm  lay  there  ;  if  it  had 
been  dead  past  waking  we  would  have 
shunned  the  place.  But  we  gazed  upon  the 
plaza  as  on  the  face  of  a  sleeping  child,  con-^ 
tent  to  imagine  how  it  would  look  with  its 
eyes  open,  and  we  let  it  sleep  on. 

To  the  charm  of  the  purlieus  of  the  cathe- 
dral that  my  pen  has  no  power  to  describe, 
a  great  delight  was  added  by  the  color  which 
washed  the  whole,  rich,  old  yellow  ;  painful 
to  the  eyes  in  the  sun,  but  deliciouslv  sooth- 
ing in  the  shade.  Above  this  tapestry  border 
the  cathedral  towered,  a  mass  of  heavy  walls 
springing  to  parapets,  castellated  towers, 
pinnacles,  and  spires,  all  moulded,  as  it  were, 
out  of  a  Gargantuan  cake  of  chocolate.  To 
the  amateur's   kindling  eye,  this   jumble   of 


122 


IN    SEVILLE. 


confusing  forms,  this  jaundiced  construction 
of  incongruous  details,  which  are  nearly'  the 
words  which  architects  use  to  damn  Seville 
with,  stands  a  wonderful,  mysterious  drama 
in  stone  which  Time  has  taken  in   hand  and 
collaborated  with  the  builder  to  preserve  the 
unities.     This  lovely  brown  casket  conspired, 
with  the  sun,  to  keep  us  outside  in  idle  ad- 
miration,  as   if   both   feared    that   the  gem 
inside,  by  its  superior  richness,  would  shut 
our  eyes  to  the  exterior  picture  and  quench 
our  shadows  forever  in  its  eternal  shade. 

And,  in  truth,  a  spell  more  potent  urged 
us    when    we   finally    broke   the   other    and 
entered   the   cathedral,   a  spell   that   works 
across  leagues  of  land  and  water,  and  would 
make  one  write  an  incoherent  and  hysterical 
description.     The  cathedrals  we  had  already 
seen   failed   to  prepare  us  for   Seville.     To 
name  one  Gothic  cathedral  of  Europe  sets 
the  names  of  the  others  echoing,  and   I  can- 
not  call  up  one  without  being  lost  in  a  pro- 
cession.    But  the  cathedral  of  Seville  is  not 
included.     It  stands  alone.     It  shoots  higher 
than  its  mediaeval  fellows  ;  it  covers  a  wider, 
a  deeper,  and  an  isolated  area  of  memory. 

The  thought  of  its  isolation  was  present 
while  yet  we  were  walking  in  Seville's  aisles. 
The  cathedrals  of  Milan  and  Toledo  lost, 
with  every  visit,  some  of  the  atmosphere  of 


IN    SEVILLE. 


123 


awe  which  at  first  enveloped  them.  Although 
painfully  conscious  that  nine  parts  of  their 
meaning  were  Greek  to  us,  we  yet  came  to 
speak  of  them  familiarly,  and  to  appraise 
their  value  in  the  horribly  earthly  spirit  of 
comparison.  Like  partisans,  we  took  sides 
in  front  of  their  very  altars,  and  defended 
with  heat  whatever  belonged  particularly  to 
each.  Familiarity  with  them  had  made  of 
us  priests  to  whom  there  remained  no  mys- 
teries. Within  the  walls  of  Seville  we  felt  like 
humble  worshippers.  Those  other  churches 
we  felt  we  had  bought  with  the  fees  to  the 
sacristan,  and  we  walked  carelessly,  even  a 
little  irreverently,  about  our  own.  The  dim, 
rich  vastness  of  Seville,  from  the  curtain  at 
the  door  to  the  recess  of  the  high  altar,  was 
all  a  Holy  of  Holies. 

The  spell  was  not  broken  when  we  began 
to  walk  about,  examining  by  parts,  because, 
owing  to  oversight  or  laziness  on  the  part  of 
the  vergers,  we  were  left  alone  to  discover 
for  ourselves  the  genius  of  the  place.  To 
gaze  along  the  middle  aisle,  that  infinitely 
receded;  to  gaze  aloft  into  the  octagonal 
dome,  that  hung  nearer  heaven  than  earth  : 
to  take  the  lateral  aisles,  chapel  by  chapel,  • 
and  linger  in  each  as  long  as  one  wished, 
without  being  advised  of  something  better 
worth  looking  at  farther  on  ;    to  pore  over 


¥: 


124 


IN  SEVILLE. 


IN  SEVILLE. 


125 


the  rich  marbles  of  the  choir  and  the  carvings 
of  the  throne,  just  as  one  might  look  over  an 
illuminated  missal ;  to  look  at  the  pictures  in 
the  same  spirit,  without  saying  that  one  was 
good  and  the  other  bad  :  in  brief,  to  see 
without  criticising,  to  enjoy  without  judging 
— how  delightful  all  this  was ! 

But  it  was  one  of  the  pictures  that  brought 
down  my  soaring  spirit.     I  had  been  looking 
at  them  with  simple  wonder,  like  a  child  who 
believed  that  they  were  portraits  of  saints, 
and  not  of  models  more  or  less  spiritualized 
by  poor  diet.     I  had  given  a  child's  credence 
to  the  stories  told  of  ''  The  Descent  from  the 
Cross,"  a  picture  by  Campana  in  the  vestry 
of    the    sacristy  ;     that    it    had    frightened 
Pacheco  in  the  dusk,  and  that  Murillo  had 
often  stood  before  it,  waiting  until  Joseph 
and    his    companions    should    finish    taking 
down  the  Saviour.     I  believed  every  word 
of  these  tales  just  as  1   believe  the  modern 
history  of  the  destruction  of  the  picture  by 
Soult's   soldiers  and  its  restoration.     But   I 
came  out  of  wonderland  when  we  went  to 
see  Murillo's  "  San  Antonio,"  which  has  had 
a  history  almost  as  eventful.     The  figure  of 
the  saint  was  cut  out,  carried  to  New   York, 
and  offered  for  sale  in  the  year  1874.     The 
gashes  of  the  thief's  knife,  though  jomed   by 
skillful  stitches,  are  still  visible.     As  I  looked 


at  them,  I  reqiembered  that  ours  is  an  age 
where  child-like  simplicity  stands  a  very 
poor  show. 

In  the  centre  aisle,  directly  opposite  the 
chapel  where  this  Murillo  hangs,  stands  the 
memorial  stone  of  Ferdinand  Columbus,  the 
great  son  of  a  greater  father,  and,  as  a  sort 
of  compatriot,  deserving  of  more  melancholy 
emotion  than  we  were  able  to  accord  him. 
Try  as  we  might,  we  could  not  forget  that 
he  had  been  dead  a  number  of  centuries,  and 
our  grief  was  less  than  lukewarm.  For  the 
others,  who  have  tombs,  mortuary  chapels, 
statues,  or  slabs,  we  could  not  affect  a  decent 
degree  of  interest ;  the  people  commemorated 
by  these  symbols  being  principally  arch- 
bishops and  their  auxiliaries,  who  had  ruled 
the  chapter,  and  had  ruled  it  well,  according 
to  their  epitaphs.  We  passed  on,  paraphras- 
ing the  question  Charles  Lamb  asked  when 
a  boy,  rambling  through  a  churchyard, 
**  Where  lie  the  dignitaries  who  ruled  it  ill  ?  " 
More  time  would  undoubtedly  be  spent  in 
spelling  out  their  forgotten  names,  if  it  were 
not  for  the  chapel  behind  the  high  altar, 
which  concentrates  the  mortuary  interest  of 
the  cathedral.  This  sepulchral  chapel,  almost 
a  church  by  itself,  is  a  fifteenth  century  addi- 
tion to  the  pile,  and  most  of  the  royalties 
who  had  in  their  hves  any  good  or  evil  to  do 


/ 


/ 


126 


IN    SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


to  Seville  are  buried  or  have  memorials  here. 
Yet  have  the  chapel  gates  opened  to  receive 
the  bodies  of  some  not  royal,  among  whom 
is  Maria  de  Padilla,  the  gentle  and  lovely,  or 
vindictive   and    blood-thirsty,    according   as 
one   is   for  or   against   that   unhappy    lady, 
doomed   to  extend   her  enemies  and  lovers 
beyond  the  grave.     More  solemn  than  any 
cemetery  lying  open  to  the  sun  is  this  vast 
charnel    house,    where   the    dead— many   in 
open   coffins -seem  actually   to   have   burst 
their  cerements,  and  come  forth  to  mop  and 
mow  in  each  other's  faces,  to  carry  on  quar- 
rels  that  have  arisen  over  which  shall  take 
precedence  at  the  table  of  Death.     A  dim, 
foreboding  gloom,  not  so  much  darkness  as 
privation  of  light,  creeps  from  the  church 
over  the  pinnacles  of  the   high   altar,  and 
gives   birth  to  these   grotesque  ideas.     No 
doubt  St.   Ferdinand  lies  perfectly  quiet,  as 
he  is  said  to  lie  perfectly  preserved  in  'his 
silver  coffin  ;   no  doubt  his  son  Alonzo  has 
lost  interest  in  metaphysics  ;  no  doubt  Blanca 
has  given   over  his  glib  sophistry  ;  Padilla 
her    tears,   and    all    the   company    resigned 
themselves  to   their  situation   and   to   each 
other.     No   doubt— but   when,  as  we  stood 
by  the  railing  to  depart,  a  spent  ray  struck 
the  spun  gold  hair  of  the  Virgin  de  los  Reyes, 
endowing  it  with  the  appearance  of  life,   we 


127 


" 


hurried  away,  without  looking  back,  for  fear 
we  should  see  the  kings  beneath  the  recum- 
bent marbles,  in  the  exposed  coffins,  rise  and 
exert  a  horrid  ability  to  return  to  earth. 


XI. 


WE  had  never  been  windfalls  in  the  pre- 
carious fortunes  of  the  guides  of 
Seville.  We  did  not  need  them  to  direct 
our  trips  that  had  no  particular  destination, 
but  always  landed  us  in  some  interesting 
quarter.  In  fact,  it  seemed  that  we  took 
more  pleasure  in  losing  ourselves  than  we 
would  have  gained  from  well  designed  ex- 
cursions. Our  pride  at  getting  around  with- 
out them  went  before  a  fall  one  day,  when 
such  a  catastrophe  seemed  less  than  ever 
probable.  On  this  day  we  had  gone  to  cast 
a  final  distinction  between  the  beautiful  pict- 
ures by  Murillo,  and  the  ugly,  suppressed 
convent  in  which  they  are  so  badly  housed. 
When  we  came  out,  the  Plaza  del  Museo, 
with  Murillo's  statue  in  the  center,  lay  before 
us,  as  we  expected,  but  the  Calle  de  las 
Armas,  which  leads  in  a  straight  line  to  the 
great  thoroughfare  of  Seville,  seemed  to 
have  sunk  into  the  earth.     Where  was  it? 


Y. 


128 


IN    SEVILLE. 


Where  it  ought  to  have  opened  we  could 
find  only  a  narrow  lane  between   high   white 
walls,  that  was  blocked  by  another  wall,  after 
it  had  run  a  few  yards  in  the  direction  of  the 
city.     Returning  to  the  Plaza,  we  said  it  was 
beneath  our  dignity  to  ask  the  way,  and  we 
plunged   at   random    into   a  street    on    the 
opposite  side.     That  little   street   branched 
and  subdivided  into  a  net-work  of  alleys  and 
passages,   among   which   we    wandered   for 
hours,  never,  apparently,  getting  nearer  to 
the  city  proper,  but  catching  glimpses  of  a 
people  and  a  mode  of  life  that  were  compara- 
tively new  to  our  Sevillian  observation. 

Heaven  knows  we  had  no  need  to  explore 
this  quarter  to  appreciate  Sevillian  poverty. 
/The   poor  are   all    over   Seville,   and   their 
wretchedness  is   in   the  very  air.     Yet   the 
vhot,  dry   sun  makes  picturesque  objects  of 
the  loathsomest  cripple  and  the  filthiest  beg- 
gar, and  the  visitor  comes  to  regard  them  as 
the  shadows  of  the  oicture  necessary  to  set 
off  its  high  lights.     An  artistic  crust  forms 
over  his  sympathy ;  he  admires  them  as  an 
artist  might,  and  forgets  to  put  his  hand  in 
his  pocket.     In   the   rich   architectural   dis- 
tricts, the  church  portals  and  public  squares, 
the  beggars,  abetted  by  their  surroundings, 
seem  like  models,  to  whom  the  traveler  gives 
not  alms,  but  a  fee.     Most  of  these  beggars 


1 


I 


IN    SEVILLE. 


129 


gain  a  fictitious  cheerfulness  from  the  environ- 
ment. Some  have  an  imp  of  wit  that  hunger 
cannot  entirely  dispel,  and  few  of  them  can 
divest  themselves  of  the  national  dignity,  so 
absurdly  out  of  keeping  with  dirt  and  rags. 
In  the  stifled  quarter  where  we  now  found 
•ourselves  it  was  sadly  different.  There, 
poverty  had  no  mock  dignity,  no  bitter  jest, 
only  frowns  and  curses.  There,  want,  with- 
out a  smile,  surrendered  itself  to  starvation. 
It  had  been  warm  and  sunny  in  the  Plaza, 
but  in  these  avenues  of  adversity,  though 
there  was  heat,  indeed,  it  w^as  the  heat  of 
fever,  and  the  chill  of  pinching  need  con- 
tended with  it. 

The  streets  we  were  traversing  wxre  very 
narrow,  so  that  the  houses  though  no  higher 
than  barracks,  were  yet  high  enough  to  cast 
intermingling  shadows,  and  keep  the  broken 
pavement  always  in  the  dark.  For  the  same 
reason,  filth  and  offal  piled  up  in  heaps  before 
the  grimy  doorways,  lingered  damp  and 
€vil,  never  being  exposed  to  the  direct  rays 
of  the  sun.  The  windows  of  the  houses, 
mere  square  holes  cut  in  the  walls,  likewise 
held  each  its  rotting  burden  of  old  rags, 
decaying  vegetables,  broken  pots  and  ves- 
sels. From  this  mass  a  greasy  distillation 
oozed  down  the  whitewashed  wall,  which 
absorbed   it   before   it  reached  the  ground. 


I: 


13© 


IN    SEVILLE. 


The  first  floor  of  these  grimy  huts  appeared 
to  be  divided  into  two  cells,  one  of  inner 
darkness  which  the  eye  could  not  penetrate, 
and  the  other,  dimly  lighted,  that  seemed^ 
in  every  instance,  to  be  used  as  a  workshop. 
The  bench  and  tools  were  there,  but  rarely 
a  workman.  Shops  of  every  kind  were 
represented  in  these  streets,  squalid  copies 
of  those  of  the  Sierpes;  linen  drapers,  indi- 
cated by  scarfs  of  vulgar  hue,  dangling  in 
the  wind,  and  dingy  fringed  towels  hung  up 
in  the  casement.  There  were  fuel  shops  that 
sold  small  paper  bags  of  carbon,  and  bun- 
dles of  wood,  three  inches  in  diameter,  and 
scarcely  an  inch  thick  ;  provision  shops,  with 
dirty  windows,  displaying  cheese,  fish  cooked 
in  oil,  a  measure  of  Spanish  beans,  and  a 
handful  of  eggs,  that  ought  long  ago  to  have 
been  chickens.  There  was — it  seems  incredi- 
ble— a  jeweler's  establishment,  and  on  one 
corner  a  cafe  boasted  green  doorposts  and 
three  windows.  Humbler  places  of  refresh- 
ment were  frequent.  Except  these,  where 
men  and  women  w^ere  lounging  in  sullen 
companionship  in  and  out  of  the  doors,  none 
of  the  shops  seemed  to  have  customers.  The 
few  purchasers  we  saw  were  haggling  with 
the  hucksters  of  the  paving  stones.  All 
down  the  street  women  had  spread  mats  to 
hold  beans,  oranges,  loaves  of  bread,  shaped 


IN    SEVILLE. 


131 


like  Roman  lamps,  and  tiny  squares  of  choco- 
late, and  the  pedestrian  was  forced  to  pay 
close  attention  to  his  feet  for  fear  of  treading^ 
upon  something  edible. 

By  the  multitude  of  these  trafficking  women 
the  houses  might  be  supposed  to  have  emp- 
tied their  inhabitants  in  the  street,  had  not 
the  windows,  almost  without  exception,  dis- 
played an  animate  bundle  of  rags  above  that 
inanimate  heap  before  remarked.  These 
were  women  who  peered  down  at  the  strang- 
ers through  suspicious  black  eyes,  and  inter- 
changed uncomplimentary  remarks  about 
them  with  their  business  sisters.  The  women 
at  the  windows  seemed  to  be  the  aristocrats 
of  this  quarter ;  their  grade  being  denoted 
by  their  finding  time  to  do  something  for 
themselves.  The  nature  of  the  work  did  not 
invariably  exile  them  to  their  own  interiors  ; 
they  could  prepare  a  simple  puchero  against 
their  husband's  return,  or  carry  the  invading 
comb  into  the  tangled  tresses  of  their  chil- 
dren, in  the  full  glare  of  publicity.  Especially 
when  she  was  occupied  in  the  latter  duty, 
did  the  female  aristocrat  draw  around  her 
quite  a  little  court  of  women.  Children  col- 
lected also,  but  they  rame  to  enjoy  the 
screams  and  wrv  faces  of  the  victim.  From, 
these  employnfients  the  strangers  were  an 
attraction  powerful  enough  to  call  away  the 


> 


1. 


132 


IN    SEVILLE. 


women,  and  to  draw  off  the  children.  They 
gazed  after  us  with  sharp  eyes  and  open 
mouths,  and  on  our  venturing  to  stop  and 
put  a  question  about  the  way,  or  making  as 
if  to  enter  a  hovel,  they  drove  us  onward 
with  prodigious  vituperation.  The  men,  on 
the  other  hand,  displayed  a  certain  surly 
politeness,  so  that  when  we  grew  tired  of 
wandering  up  and  down  this  miserable  quar- 
ter, we  applied  for  a  guide  among  the  male 
inhabitants  to  conduct  us  back  to  the  light. 
Our  choice,  though  made  at  random  from  a 
knot  of  idlers  in  front  of  a  wine-shop,  turned 
out  to  be  a  happy  one;  Christiano,  or 
Christianito,  as  he  said  he  preferred  to  be 
called,  making  good  his  promise  to  t^ke  us 
algima  parte,  anywhere,  and  entertain  us  on 
the  way  with  a  full  recital  of  his  family 
history. 

Christianito  was  a  man  of  about  forty,  tall 
and  thin,  with  a  dryly  humorous  face  of  a 
dark  and  unnatural  color.  He  wore  on  his 
head  the  gorro  grande,  large  cap,  which  he 
removed  at  every  street  corner  to  gesticulate 
with,  and  lend  vivacity  to  his  explanation, 
that  if  we  would  take  the  trouble  to  go  a 
very  little  way  in  this  direction,  and  then 
give  a  vueltacita,  a  very  little  turn,  we  would 
have  evidence  ol  his  surpassing  ability  as  a 
guide.     He  said,  and  he  evidently  believed. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


^11 


that  we  had  been  providentially  led  to  him 
that  afternoon,  for  having  started  out  in  the 
morning  with  money  entrusted  to  him  for  a 
certain  purpose  by  his  wife,  he  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  lose  it,  and  at  the  very  moment 
we  accosted  him  he  was  racking  his  brains 
for  some  means  to  replace  it,  or,  failing  in 
that,  to  offer  his  Catujita  (his  little  Kate)  an 
acceptable  excuse.  When  we  asked  Chris- 
tianito what  he  did  for  a  living,  he  replied 
that  his  wife  took  in  sewing  in  which  he 
sometimes  assisted  her ;  but  he  frankly  con- 
fessed that  he  could  not  bear  to  work  in  a 
fashion  so  unbecoming  a  man.  But  as  he 
had  not  been  brought  up  to  any  profession, 
and  not  h^in^jorobado  (hunchbacked),  could 
not  beg,  he  was  forced  to  stifle  his  ambition. 
In  response  to  a  delicate  question,  Chris- 
tianito told  us  that  his  Kate  was  a  master- 
piece of  nature,  well  shaped,  neither  too  tall 
nor  too  short,  and  well  stocked  with  wit. 
She  was  a  great  comfort  to  him,  and  he  had 
never  regretted  his  choice ;  yet  he  found  in 
Catujita  one  great  defect.  What  is  that 
defect?  "Jealousy,"  replied  Christianito, 
gravely,  **  it  goes  on  worse  and  worse. 
Twice  in  the  last  month  she  turned  me  out 
of  doors  {en  la  calk),'' 

The  walk  home  occupied  the  best  part  of 
an  hour,  and  we  suspected  that  our  guide. 


r 


«M 


IN    SEVILLE. 


calculating  that  the  fee  would  increase  in 
proportion  to  the  length  and  the  difficulty  of 
the  way,  took  us  by  a  circuitous  route.  But 
he  diverted  suspicion  by  his  conversation. 
Christianito  was  an  admirable  talker — an 
accomplishment  rarely  found  in  Spaniards 
of  his,  or,  indeed,  of  any  class — quick,  piquant, 
entertaining,  often  witty,  and  exposing  can- 
didly all  of  an  illiterate  man's  various  and 
changeable  views  and  impressions.  He  was 
very  curious  to  know  what  had  brought  us 
to  Seville  from  that  far  distant  part  of  Spain, 
America,  and  our  pronunciation  of  the  Span- 
ish language,  which  he  took  to  be  the  dialect 
of  that  remote  province,  amused  him  very 
much.  In  return  for  answering  his  ques- 
tions we  asked  him  many  with  reference  to 
life  in  the  unclean  quarter  where  we  dis- 
covered him.  But  on  this  point  Christianito 
was  non-committal.  He  shrugged  his  should- 
ers. Perhaps  the  quarter  was  unhealthy, 
and  the  inhabitants  not  so  rich  as  an  arch- 
bishop ;  but  what  would  you  have  ?  People  are 
born  into  the  world  with  a  certain  lot,  riches 
or  poverty,  and  the  best  course  they  can 
adopt  is  to  accept  it  patiently.  Grumbling 
mends  no  bones. 

Thus,  our  guide  was  a  philosopher  and  not 
a  reformer.  We  were  glad  to  take  him  as  he 
was,  his  cheerful  conversation  acting  like  a 


IN   SEVILLE. 


135 


tonic  on  our  spirits  depressed  by  the  grim 
region  we  had  quitted.  Turning  into  a 
familiar  street  we  reluctantly  dismissed 
Christianito.  He  had  been  a  merry  quip  at 
the  end  of  a  miserable  chapter. 

Like   most   tonics,   Christianito  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a  deeper  fit  of  depression  than  the 
one    he    had    banished.     The    cemetery    of 
Seville  helped  us  to  get  rid  of  it.     After  that 
hurried  walk  in  the  cemetery  of  the  living,  a 
stroll  in  the  cemetery  of  the   dead  seemed 
less  awful.     It   even   comforted   us   a  little. 
Yet  the  cemetery  of  San  Sebastian,  spread 
on  the  plain  to  the  north  of  the  city,  may  not 
be  said,  except  by  comparison,   to   awaken 
any  but  sad  and  sombre  thoughts.     It  is  a 
dismal  place,  without  the  natural  beauty  of 
Greenwood,  or  the  studied  sentiment  of  Pere 
la  Chaise.     Neither  nature  nor  art  take  the 
time   to   beautify  this  necropolis,  which  re- 
sembles a  city  deserted  by  its  builders  im- 
mediately after  they  had  laid  the  foundations 
of  their  dwellings.     Plague,   pestilence,   or 
some  other  evil  thing,  seemed  to  have  fright- 
ened men  from  raising  a  superstructure.     It 
is  an  artificial  Pompeii,  only  the  cinders  are 
carefully   and  reverently  brought  there,   in- 
stead of  being  carted  away.     The  dead  are 
laid  above  ground,  in  niches  cut  out  of  these 
foundations,  in  rows,  one  above  the  other,  to 


K 


136 


IN    SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


137 


I 


the  height  of  six  recumbent  men.  This 
method  brings  down  with  crushing  weight 
on  the  head  of  the  solitary  visitor  the  sense 
of  his  own  mortality.  He  cannot  conceal 
from  himself  that  his  case  is  desperate.  It 
is  six  to  one. 

We   walked  deep  among  the   dead  for  a 
half  hour,  reading  the  inscriptions  over  the 
niches,  that  in  each  case  sets  forth  the  piety 
of  the  enclosed,  accompanied  by  a  sentiment 
concerning  death,  drawn  from  some  Spanish 
writer,  and  confirming  our  first  impression, 
that  Seville  possesses  no  more  originality  in 
epitaphs   than   other   cities.     These  inscrip. 
tions  are  at  the  same  time   permanent  and 
temporary.     The  sentiment,  as  it   is  imper- 
sonal, is  engraved  on  the  stone  itself,  but  the 
name  of  the  dead  man,  with  the  exposition  of 
his  virtues,  is  printed  on  a  detachable  plate- 
Death's  door-plate— which  can  be   removed 
when  his  lease  expires,  or  sooner,  if  he  fails 
to  pay  the  rent. 

Just  within  the  gate  are  the  offices  of  the 
cemetery.  These  had  that  heartless,  cold 
air,  peculiar  to  places  as  well  as  to  people, 
which  see  too  much  grief  to  be  touched  by 
it.  Near  by  is  the  chamber  where  the  dead 
person,  in  a  coffin  closed  with  hasps  like  a 
fiddle  case,  passes  his  first  twenty-four  hours 
as  a  cemetery  citizen— that 'being  the  time 


required  by  Spanish  law  to  be  certain  he  is 
dead.  The  same  time  serves  for  the  work- 
men to  empty  a  niche  of  the  bones  of  his  pred- 
ecessor, and  prepare  it  for  his  reception.  By 
the  gate,  also,  stands  a  chapel,  in  which  a 
little  wax  figure  of  a  man,  with  flames  around 
him,  the  effigy  of  a  soul  in  purgatory,  begs  a 
contribution  for  its  relief.  All  these  build- 
ings are  against  the  wall  of  the  cemetery,  and 
between  them  and  the  first  block  of  niches 
runs  a  paseo,  broad  and  sandy,  with  a  narrow 
strip  of  grass  and  a  row  of  discouraged  trees 
on  either  side.  Here  on  Sundays,  especially 
in  winter,  when  there  are  no  bull  fights,  come 
hundreds  of  Sevillians  of  both  sexes,  ostensi- 
bly to  pay  their  respects  to  deceased 
relatives,  but  really  to  gossip  and  quarrel 
with  friends  and  relatives  who  are  living. 

After  seeing  that  cemetery,  I  think  most 
people  will  be  content  with  life,  however 
irremediable  its  evils  seem  to  them,  and  there 
can  be  no  doubt  they  will  cheerfully  endure 
it  for  a  period  long  enough  to  ensure  them 
against  burial  there.  We  departed  from 
San  Sebastian  with  hearts  so  full  of  gratitude 
as  to  have  enriched  all  the  beggars  of  Seville, 
if  we  could  have  carried  it  back  without 
spilling.  But  in  the  walk  across  the  plain, 
we  came  to  what  we  took  for  the  site  of  the 
Quemadcro,  the  platform  on  which  Valdez 


i        i 

.    1 


£ 


i 


138 


IN    SEVILLE. 


piled  his  fagots,  and  there  we  paused  and 
poured  out  the  precious  ointment  of  our  joy 
in  living  on  a  thing  quite  as  abstract— the 
century  in  which  we  lived.  We  felt  pro- 
foundly thankful  that  human  bonfires  are  not 
a  fashion  of  our  day. 

It  was  not  easy  to  call  up  the  scenes, 
painted  in  black  and  red,  that  this  platform — 
if  it  were  the  platform  of  the  Quemadero— 
witnessed  in  that  fiery  epoch.  It  was  not 
easy  to  fill  the  empty  plain  with  the  multi- 
tude, and  the  platform  with  the  great  per- 
sonages of  the  Church  and  Seville,  but  we 
did  our  best  under  the  circumstances,  and 
later  on  we  made  up  the  deficiency  of  apt 
reflection  we  deplored  in  the  morning  by 
reading  Murray's  Hand-book. 

Far  easier  had  I  found  it  at  home,  where 
that  hand-book  was  a  nausea,  to  imagine  the 
mito-da-fe,  than  on  the  spot  where  the  flame 
lighted  up  the  Inquisitor's  horrid  smile. 

I  do  not  know  how  far  the  reader  cares  to 
go  in  execrating  Valdez,  Archbishop  of 
Seville,  and  it  may  be  enough  to  say,  that  to 
this  day  the  people  of  the  city,  who  are 
modern  otherwise  in  their  choice  of  syn- 
onyms, use  for  the  symbol  of  cruelty  the 
name  of  that  remorseless  priest.  As  Inquisi- 
tor-general he  compelled  even  cardinals  to 
bend  their  haughty  crests  in  suit  for  mercy, 


IN    SEVILLE. 


139 


and  the  people  of  Seville,  indeed,  all  Spain, 
were  like  one  neck  beneath  the  axe  which 
he  wielded  by  the  vast  irresponsible  and  ill- 
defined  powers  vested  in  him  as  the  head  of 
the  Holy  Office.  In  a  single  year  after 
Valdez  had  grasped  the  banner  of  the 
tribunal,  he  had  so  crowded  the  prisons  of 
the  country,  from  Valladolid  to  Seville,  that 
in  order  to  make  room  for  the  victims  daily 
caught  by  his  familiars,  he  was  forced  to  set 
fire  to  the  fagots  in  the  northern  and  south- 
ern capitals. 

Then  it  was  that  the  Sevillians  had  pro- 
vided for  them  an  entertainment  that  dwarfed 
the  fights  of  the  bull-ring  into  mere  pin-prick- 
ing. The  populace  abandoned  to  solitude 
the  Plaza  de  Toros,  and  streamed  out  of  the 
northern  gate  to  the  plain  of  San  Sebastian. 
Princes,  dukes  and  grand  families  rode  forth 
with  their  children,  and  took  their  places  on 
canopied  balconies  erected  around  the  plat- 
form of  fire.  When  all  was  ready,  and  the 
Inquisitor  had  taken  his  place,  the  prisoners 
began  their  march  through  the  lists,  buffeted 
and  jeered  by  the  spectators,  not  from  hate, 
but  because  they  dreaded  the  tyrant's  suspi- 
cious eye.  First  came  the  penitents,  who 
were  to  be  reprimanded  and  set  free,  as  the 
black  gowns  they  wore  denoted.  Next,  the 
victims  who  were  to  suffer  fine  and  imprison- 


»  ii 


i    ^ 


1^ 

I 


140 


IN    SEVILLE. 


ment ;  their  garments  were  painted  with 
downward  pointing  flames.  In  gowns  paint- 
ed with  flames  darting  upward,  walked,  with 
feeble  steps,  the  poor  creatures  whose  bodies 
were  to  be  burned  for  the  salvation  of  their 
souls.  These  halted  in  front  of  the  plat- 
form, beneath  the  Inquisitor,  while  the  oth- 
ers stood  on  either  side.  A  sermon  was  then 
delivered  by  one  of  the  archbishop's  clergy, 
and  at  its  conclusion  a  crier  called  over  the 
names  and  crimes  of  the  accused,  following 
each  man's  name  with  the  sentence  which 
had  been  passed  upon  him.  The  sentences 
of  death  were  straightway  carried  into  exe- 
cution. One  by  one,  strong  men,  who  defied 
the  tyrant  to  the  last;  delicate  women,  who 
shrieked  as  the  inquisitors  laid  hold  of  them  ; 
all  were  taken  up  and  bound  in  the  midst  of 
a  pile  of  fagots,  the  torch  was  applied,  the 
fire  crept  up,  and — 

And — but  what  is  the  sequence  to  the 
account  of  these  unintelligible  horrors  ?  I  can 
think  of  but  one,  and  that  a  non  seqiiitur.  It 
is  pleasant  to  reflect  that  a  priest  in  Spain  to- 
day exerts  but  a  personal  influence.  Like 
other  men,  he  stands  or  falls  according  as  he 
is  possessed  of  human  virtues  or  failings. 


m 


IN    SEVILLE. 


141 


XII. 

SPRING  was  coming.  Signs  were  abroad 
which  even  northern  eyes  could  read. 
The  orange  trees  were  beginning  to  look 
more  yellow  than  green  as  the  fruit  out- 
numbered the  leaves  ;  the  fronds  of  the  palms 
waved  with  more  queenly  grace  as  they  ap- 
proached in  size  the  fan  of  Cleopatra.  There 
were  days  of  rain  when  the  air  struck  cold 
and  damp  to  the  bones,  alternated  with  clear 
days  when  the  sun  shone  as  if  it  were  already 
June.  On  these  days  the  sky  no  longer 
wore,  as  it  had  done  in  the  past  months,  the 
look  of  a  China  blue  eye,  but  gazed  down 
upon  us  through  orbs  of  a  milder,  yet  deeper, 
a  lovelier  blue.  It  was  time  to  show  our 
ingratitude  to  Seville,  the  city  that  had 
sheltered  us  so  well,  to  escape  from  it  as 
from  a  prison,  taking  the  key  of  the  fields. 

The  unrest  peculiar  to  spring  spread  to 
our  fellow-boarders— the  priests— manifest- 
ing itself  by  certain  twitchings  of  their  robes 
to  which  there  is  no  season,  neither  summer 
nor  winter,  by  a  minute  but  appreciable 
change  in  the  angle  of  their  tri-corners,  and 
they  weVe  not  unwilling  to  make  a  visit  to 
the  old   convent  of   San  Isidoro  at  Italica, 


,/ 


Ii 


142 


IN    SEVILLE. 


their  excuse  for  joining  us  in  a  dia  de  campo, 
a  day  in  the  country. 

Early  one  morning  we  set  forth  mounted 
on  asses,  crossed  the  iron  bridge  and  clat- 
tered through  Triana,  greeted  by  as  many  of 
the  inhabitants  as  were  sober  and  stirring, 
with  more  respect,  owing  to  the  priestly 
convoy,  than  we  were  accustomed  to  from 
the  surly  natives,  and  with  less  mockery  in 
the  customary  salutation  of  which  they  used 
the  longer  form;  Que  no  haya  novedad  f.  Voya 
tistedcs  con  Dios  /  And  turning  to  the  right 
along  an  excellent  road  we  soon  had  a 
distant  view  of  the  sequestrated  convent 
Cartuja. 

At  the  donkey  rate  of  travel   some   time 

must  elapse  before  we  reached  the  convent, 

but  we  did  not  wish  to  hurry.     The  morning 

was  lovely  ;  the  broken  hedges  on  either  side 

of  the   road    exhibited  the   cactus  in    every 

stage  of  growth  and  in  ^^^^ry  variety  of  the 

green    color;     the    young    olive    orchards 

sparkled  with  dew ;  and,  moreover,  we  were 

forever  turning  back  to  catch  Seville's  white 

houses  in  the  act,  as  it  seemed,  of  hastening 

towards   the   cathedral,  where  the  town    is 

densest,  to  say  matins.     We  passed  now  and 

then  the  high  white  wall  of  a  farm   house  or 

country  estate,  and  here  and  there  we  looked 

in  through  the  open  door  at  the  squalor  of  a 


IN    SEVILLE. 


143 


cottage  or  posada,  but  we  met  few  travelers 
either  on  foot  or  mule-back,  and  this  environ 
of  Seville  seemed  to  be  thinly  settled. 

It  was  the  more  startling,  therefore,  during 
this  silent  ride,  to  turn  a  bend  in  the  road 
and  fall  suddenly  upon  a  manufactory  in  full 
blast ;  the  whirring  of  potters'  wheels  drown- 
ing the  songs  of  the  birds,  for  the  convent 
dedicated  to  Our  Lady  of  Las  Cuevas  is  now 
used  for  turning  out  ceramics.     It  is  in  the 
hands  of  English  capitalists  who   copy  the 
patterns  of  antique  Hispano-Moresque  lustre 
to  decorate  modern  money-breeding  wares. 
The  noble  church  is  used  for  the  workshop, 
and   only   the   chapel    remains   intact.     We 
lingered  an  agreeable  hour  there,  examining 
the  sculptures  in  niches  and  the  carvings  of 
the  coro,  but  the  robed  portion  of  our  party 
manifested  entire  indifference  to  these  things, 
while   they    studied    with    almost    childish 
curiosity  the  wheels,  tools,  truss,  and  every 
thing   in  the  church  workshop.     When  we 
had  mounted  once  more,  and  were  following 
up  the  Guadalquivir  towards  Italica,  a  secu- 
lar member  of  the  party  inquired  of  a  grave 
father  if  the  sight  of  the  convent  so  misused 
was  not  distressing.     His  reply  seemed  curi- 
ous  :  **  Why  should  it  distress  any  one?  "  he 
returned.     '"It  is  answering  a  need   of  the 
times.     Had   they   shut  it  up  and  left  it  to 


f 


1^ 


144 


IN    SEVILLE. 


decay  one  might  reasonably  grieve  ;  silence 
can  never  take  the  place  of  truth,  but  honest 
labor  partly  may." 

The  village  of  Santi  Ponce,  which  is  the 
modern  name  of  old  Italica,   lay  about  four 
miles  further  on,  and   the  road   thither,   as 
well   as  the  country  on   both  banks  of  the 
Guadalquivir   was   uninteresting,  or   would 
have  seemed  so  any  other  day  but  this — our 
first  without  the  walls.     At  the  convent  of 
San  Isidoro  we  dismounted,  and  the  priests 
remained  in   the  church   while  we   went  on 
foot  to  the  village.     Santi   Ponce,  built   on 
the  site  of  Italica,  is  a  miserable  collection  of 
hovels  whitewashed  to  the  foundation,  where 
there  is  a  strong  unpleasant  juxtaposition  of 
colors,  the  white  wall  and  the  black  unpaved 
street.     There  were  few  inhabitants  in  siorht, 
an  old  woman  or  two  leaning  over  the  lower 
half  of  a  door  cut  in  the  Flemish  fashion,  and 
near  the  Casino  a  group  of  men  loutish  and 
ill-favored.     We   saw    no    children,    but   in 
traversing  the  hamlet  we  heard  several,  and 
were  relieved  of  the  fear  of  the  extinction  of 
this  place,    lowest  in  the  order  of  villages. 
Santi  Ponce  occupies  but  one  of  the  seven 
small  hills — the  other  six  have  gone  to  loam 
and  garbage — upon  which,  like  Rome,  once 
stood    Italica,   a  city  of  wealth  and  culture 
under  the  Roman  domination.     Scipio  Afri- 


J 


IN    SEVILLE. 


145 


canus  founded  this  town  as  a  retreat  for  his 
veterans,  and  its  rapid  growth  must  have 
surprised  him,  while  it  filled  his  pockets,  if, 
as  in  modern  times,  the  founder  reserved  all 
the  corner  lots.  Italica  gave  birth  to  three 
Roman  emperors:  Trajan,  Hadrian  and  The- 
odosius.  Under  Hadrian  it  became  a  Roman 
subject,  and  some  of  the  overplus  of  deco- 
ration with  which  he  crowded  Rome  he 
permitted  to  remain  here  to  awaken  in  the 
savage  minds  of  the  Iberians  respect  for  his 
authority  and  veneration  for  his  self-asserted 
divinity.  For  a  time  Seville  was  left  far 
behind  in  wealth  and  population,  but  the 
pride  of  Italica  went  before  a  drouth.  Its 
ruin  dates  from  the  change  in  the  course  of 
the  Guadalquivir,  which  now  finds  its  way 
many  miles  to  the  left,  though'  formerly  it 
bathed  the  walls  of  Italica.  The  ancient  bed 
of  the  river  is  still  discernible,  and  booths 
are  erected  there  during  the  annual  flicker 
of  animation  in  Italica's  ashes,  the  Fair  of 
Santi  Ponce. 

Italica's  period  of  greatest  prosperity  was 
under  the  rule  of  the  Moors,  who  named  the 
city  Ishbil  the  Old,  in  distinction  from  Se- 
ville, but  after  the  river  had  spoiled  the  land, 
they  quickly  surrendered  it  to  desolation,  a 
more  faithful  master  that  has  relinquished 
nothing  except  the  stones  of  the  amphithea- 


M 


A 


]('■ 


*''«»^S!»S1«5B«»f4'^:s^&.  - 


146 


IN    SEVILLE.. 


tre,  and  even  those  had  to  be  taken  by  force. 
Some  still  remain  in  its  grasp,  and  the  circu- 
lar sweep  is  still  to  be  distinctly  traced  be- 
tween two  hills.  Different  accounts  are 
given  of  the  disposition  of  the  stone  of  the 
benches,  and  the  facings  of  hewn  stone  of 
which  this  Spanish  coliseum  was  constructed, 
and  it  is  probable  that  each  account  is  true. 
Guzman  the  Good  quarried  some  to  build 
the  convent  of  San  Isidoro,  where  he  chose 
to  be  buried,  and  the  corporation  of  Seville,, 
on  two  occasions,  supplied  themselves  with 
the  antique  seats  ;  once  for  river  dykes,  and 
again,  in  1774,  to  make  a  road  to  Badajos. 
A  few  stones  still  turn  an  edge  to  the  sun- 
light, expectant  of  excavation,  but  more  are 
entirely  buried,  and  their  mounds  and  the 
chasms  whence  their  fellows  were  drawn, 
the  whole  overgrown  with  brush  and  weeds,, 
trace  out  the  amphitheatre  together.  This 
arena  of  Italica  is  as  disappointing  as  most  of 
its  contemporaries  in  variouspartsof  the  clas- 
sical world,  none  of  them  lending  any  assist- 
ance to  the  imagination  when  it  seeks  to  call 
up  the  exciting  scenes  we  know  each  has 
witnessed. 

To  us,  wandering  hap-hazard  over  the 
mounds,  came  a  young  priest  to  announce 
breakfast,  and  we  accompanied  him  very 
willingly  to  the  convent,  where,  or  rather  in 


1  'I 


^ 


IN    SEVILLE. 


147 


a  bare  little  room  off  the  chapel,  a  sort  of 
secular  sacristy,  a  table  had   been  laid.     It 
was  spread  with  those  wonderful  dishes  of 
oil,  tomatoes   and   eggs,  with  more  than   a 
sprinkling  of  red  pepper— such  as  the  Span^ 
ish  love,  of  which  the  village  padre  had  the 
true  receipt.     Foreseeing  our  heretical  taste,, 
our  priests  helped  out  the  repast   by  cold 
chicken  and   a  goodly  provision  of  sausage,^ 
they   had   seen    packed   before   leaving  the 
Casa    Carasa.      We   ate    with   appetites  as 
lusty  as  those  of  the  gladiators  who  used  to 
refresh  themselves  near  this  very  spot,  after 
they  had  returned  from  a  bloody  bout  in  the 
arena.     When  these  matters  of  life  had  been 
attended  to,  we  could  think  of  those  of  death, 
some  notable  names  of  people  who  are  buried 
in  San  Isidoro   hurrying   us   in  mind   from 
the  first  to  the  other  dread  extreme.     Among 
them   lie   Guzman  and  his   wife,   and    that 
beautiful  martyr  Dona  Urraca  Ozorio,  burned 
by  Pedro  the  Cruel.     Ferdinand  Cortez  first 
found  rest  in  peaceful  San  Isidoro,  after  his 
troubled  and  glorious  career  had  closed  at 
Castileja.     His  bones  have  been  removed  to 
Mexico,  but  the  spirit  of  the  conqueror  still 
haunts  the   convent,  where   he  was  merely,, 
so  to   speak,   a  casual  guest,  or  a  fieeting 
tenant. 

Returning  to  Seville  by  a  different  route,. 


II 


/> 


'{ 


148 


IN    SEVILLE. 


we  were  able  to  visit  Castileja  de  la  Cuesta, 
where   Cortez   died,    poor   and   unhonored. 
Nothing  impressed  us  there  with  the  sense 
that   the   shade   of  the   mighty   adventurer 
revisits  the  spot  where  he  spent  his  misera- 
ble last  years ;   nothing  spoke  of  his   living 
presence  there ;  no  villager  could  point  out 
to  us  any  of  his  haunts,  nor  the   house   in 
which  he  died.     Perhaps  the  dead  enjoy  in 
a  greater  degree  than  the  living  the  faculty 
of  forgetting  the  miseries  they  once  endured, 
and  hover  over  only  the  places  and  people 
that  gave  them  pleasure  in   Ufe.     I  cannot 
imagine  any  spirit  getting  pleasure  out  of 
Castileja,  or  wishing  to  return  there.     Yet 
from  the  little  plaza  on  the  summit  of  the 
hill,   the    view  one   obtains   of   Seville,   her 
plains,    and   the  Sierra   Morena   beyond,  is 
worth  all  the  squalor  and  wretchedness  one 
must  pass  through,  to  get  it.     Paradise  no 
longer  seems  so  beautiful  since  a  belief  in 
Purgatory  was  pronounced  to  be  superstition. 
We  did  not  linger  there  all  the  afternoon, 
however,  for  the  canon  promised  us  a  much 
finer  view  farther  on ;  so,  strongly  opposed 
by   our   donkeys,    we    mounted   again,   and 
skirted    Seville   to   the  southwest,  until  we 
came  to  a  bluff,  on  the  edge  of  which  is  situ- 
ated the  village  of  San  Juan  de  Alfarache— 
where  a  long   line   of  ruinous   wall  and  a 


{  ^ 


IN    SEVILLE. 


149 


shattered  tower  are  all  that  remain  of  what 
was  once  the  Moorish  river  key  of  Seville. 
At  a  quay  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  one  can  take 
a  boat  back  to  the  city,  and  as  we  started  to 
climb  to  the  monastery  for  the  view  of  San 
Juan,  a  gay  water  party  were  just  disem- 
barking. We  reached  the  church  without 
much  effort.  It  is  built  on  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  and  from  the  terrace  in  front  the  canon 
pointed  to  the  beautiful  landscape  open  helow 
us,  with  a  pardonable  expression  of  "  I  told 
you  so." 

Really  he  had  told  us  we  should  see  the 
most  beautiful  natural  picture  in  all  the 
world,  and  he  had  not  to  be  a  Spaniard  to 
say  so.  There  lay  Seville  spread  in  the 
plain,  like  a  lazy  Sultana  in  her  bath.  All 
white  she  seemed  at  first  in  the  ardent  rays 
of  the  afternoon  sun — but  after  a  little,  colors 
grew  out  of  the  colorless  scintillations.  The 
Moorish  turrets  sparkled  like  emeralds  and 
turquoises,  and  the  high  pink  Giralda  lifted 
itself  over  all,  like  the  massive,  polished  arm 
of  a  beautiful  Goth.  The  green  and  gold 
plain  extended  behind  the  city  to  the  horizon, 
where  it  rose  with  a  slight  undulation  like  a 
wave  to  touch  the  sky.  Groves  and  planta- 
tions, distant  as  well  as  near,  were  so  clear 
and  distinct  that  we  could  almost  count  the 
trees,  and  yet  we  could  not  make  out  the 


/^ 


m 


If  I 


ISO 


IN    SEVILLE. 


city  of  Carmona  where  it  was  designated  for 
us,  owing  to  that  same  African  whiteness 
which  blends  so  well  with  the  sun. 

We  crossed  the  village  to  descend,*  and 
were  surprised  to  find  what  a  povertystricken 
place  it  was.  Often  in  looking  at  it  from 
Seville  we  had  admired  that  little  group  of 
houses,  hanging  like  a  seagull  on  the  edge  of 
the  river.  We  had  not  the  same  misgiving 
in  regard  to  its  perpetuity  which  we  had  felt 
for  Santi  Ponce.  There  are  swarms  of  chil- 
dren in  San  Juan — swarthv,  almost  black 
young  ones,  thin  and  nearly  naked,  that 
remind  one  of  a  crowded  nest  of  robins.  Poor 
as  the  people  are  they  live  in  what  looks  like 
a  luxuriant  paradise.  The  orange  and  olive 
gardens  which  surround  the  village  looked 
more  productive  and  abundant  than  those 
we  had  passed  in  the  morning. 

The  way  back  lay  through  an  intervale 
among  lovely  little  hills.  On  both  sides,  and 
extending  to  the  summits,  were  line  country 
places,  some  with  handsome  summer  houses, 
the  blinds  of  which  were  tightly  drawn,  in- 
dicating that  the  time  of  migration  from  the 
heat  of  Seville  had  not  yet  come.  Many  of 
these  places  had  ornamental  gardens  in  front 
of  the  houses,  and  avenues  of  palm  trees 
which  led  up  from  the  gate-way.  Mentally 
resolving  to  obtain  permission  to  visit  one  of 


IN    SEVILLE. 


iSi 


these  deserted  places,  we  crossed  an  immense 
orange  grove  that  stretched  almost  down  to 
the  tide,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  way  back 
to  Triana  we  rarely  lost  sight  of  the  swirling 
torrent. 

The  sun  had  just  set  when  we  reached  the 
Triana  bridge,  and  turned  over  our  beasts  to 
the  muleteers  waiting  there.  While  the  rest 
of  the  party  hurried  home  we  remained  to 
watch  the  passers-by.  Two  streams  of  peo- 
ple meet  here  at  this  hour,  the  working  men 
and  women  of  Triana,  who  earn  their  bread 
in  Seville,  and  the  laborers  pf  that  city  who 
work  in  the  manufactories  of  Triana.  Among 
them  were  many  beautiful  women,  with  won- 
derful eyes  that  flashed  opalescent,  and  their 
brilliant  dresses  and  uncovered  heads,  each 
with  a  carnation  or  rose,  made  a  lively, 
phantasmagoric  procession.  It  was  soon  past, 
and  the  warm,  human  darkness  of  southern 
latitudes  had  fallen. 

Shadows  crouched  blackest  where  the 
houses  of  the  Barrio  of  Triana  came  down  to 
the  very  edge  of  the  river ;  on  the  other  bank, 
white  poplars  behind  a  row  of  osiers  swayed 
in  the  gentle  breeze  like  kindly  ghosts,  whose 
pale  silvery  shrouds  looked  purple  in  the  ob- 
scurity. The  green  wall  of  verdure  made 
by  the  gardens  of  Las  Delicias  had  grown 
into  a  black,  impenetrable  mass,  and  only  the 


./^ 


152 


IN    SEVILLE. 


Great  River,  as  it  swept  on  its  majestic 
course,  seemed,  by  the  lights  that  gleamed 
and  died  on  its  trembling  surface  like  the 
starts  and  exclamations  of  a  troubled  sleeper, 
to  remember  there  was  such  a  thing  as  day. 
Alarming  but  delicious  was  this  sudden 
change  from  turmoil  to  quiet.  We  heard 
with  regret  the  foot-fall  of  returning  pedes- 
trians, and  the  rattling  of  chains  of  a  boat 
about  to  leave  the  roadstead  The  boat 
drifted  away,  the  people  glided  past,  and  a 
silence  clear  and  deep,  like  that  of  the  stars, 
descended  again.  Now  a  dark  shape — the 
boating  party— makes  its  way  up  stream. 
The  guitars,  touched  softly,  give  breath  to 
the  quaint,  Moorish  sequidilla.  The  song 
floats  low  like  a  perfume,  and  mingles  frater- 
nally with  the  perfume  from  the  banks — 
compounded  of  flowers,  of  fruits  and  the 
spring-scent  of  the  earth.  It  is  the  good- 
night kiss  of  sleepy  nature. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


153 


XIII. 

BY  to-morrow  the  Duke  of  Montpensier 
will  have  returned  from  Madrid  and 
closed  the  gates  of  his  San  Telmo  garden 
upon  us.  To-morrow  those  palms  and  oran- 
ges, those  walks  and  avenues  will  fade  into 
memories,  dimly  seen  like  the  smile  of  a 
woman  at  a  bal-masque,  behind  the  purple 
silk  of  her  domino. 

To-morrow  !  Ah,  let  us  visit  them  again 
to-day. 

Never  did  that  glorious  garden  of  San 
Telmo  seem  as  luxuriantly  beautiful  as  it  did 
when  we  went  there  for  the  last  time,  know- 
ing that  it  was  the  last.  When  we  entered 
the  garden,  after  passing  through  the  large, 
light  and  common-place  suits  of  the  palace  (a 
brick  edifice  in  the  Italian  style,  where  the 
emptyings  of  galleries  are  hung,  and  Ary 
SchefTer  is  king)  we  received  a  sullen  wel- 
come. The  walks,  which  conducted  to  the 
avenue  of  the  park,  had  scarcely  left  the  trim 
lawn  under  the  palace  windows,  before  wild 
grass  and  creeping  plants  took  them  prison- 
ers ;  the  trees  were  swathed  with  parasitic 
vines  up  to  their  lowest  branches,  and  the 
avenue  itself  appeared  to  extend  but  a  short 


(I 


/' 


\( 


154 


IN   SEVILLE. 


distance,  and  then  to  end  in  an  inextricable 
jungle.  Nature  had  hung  up  a  sign  to  warn 
off  trespassers.  Nevertheless,  we  disobeyed 
her.  We  climbed  the  rise  of  ground  which 
obstructs  the  avenue,  and  which,  covered  by 
a  bed  of  viscid  leaves,  gave  the  effect  of  a 
solid  wall  of  verdure,  and  we  had  our  reward. 
Beyond  lay  the  garden,  and  we  saw  a  land- 
scape where  art  is  natural  and  where  nature 
is  artistic;  where  art  has  followed  original 
instincts,  where  nature  is  tended,  and  where 
both  have  formed  a  garden  that  might  be 
likened  to  a  room  which  is  neat  but  not  too 
well  kept.  But  that  is  a  disproportionate 
comparison,  for  in  this  oasis  there  is  an  intoxi- 
cating mystery — a  mystery  that  draws  us  on 
like  desire. 

I  do  not  know  how  many  acres  this  garden 
of  San  Telmo  contains  within  .its  walls. 
They  cannot  be  many,  and  with  that  vague 
statement  I  am  content.  In  truth,  I  should 
be  sorry  to  read  an  intelligent  explanation 
which  would  clear  up  the  artifices  of  the 
gardener;  which  would  thread  the  labyrinth 
of  its  walks  and  allees.  Perhaps  the  wish  to 
keep  San  Telmo  for  a  delightful  torment  be- 
longs to  the  family  of  wire-drawn  sentiments, 
but  I  think  otherwise.  There  is  a  reason  for 
it  which  love  accepts  if  curiosity  does  not — 
and  to  know  who  suffers  from  a  conflict  be- 


IN    SEVILLE. 


155 


tween  love  and  curiosity,  one  has  only  to 
read  the  myth  of  Cupid  and  Psyche.  Who  is 
so  impious  as  to  question  why  the  Creator  of 
the  world  set  a  stream  to  meander  through  a 
particular  valley  ?  Who  thinks  of  Eden  save 
as  a  mysterious  beauty  ? 

I  hesitate  to  compare  San  Telmo  to  Eden, 
where  some  serious,  some  worshipful  influ- 
ences surely  breathed  in  the  air.  San  Telmb 
is  not  a  serious  garden,  and  from  it,  as  from 
Saracenic  architecture,  all  solemnity  and 
aspiration  are  banished.  Here  Adam  might 
have  been  able  to  conquer  his  inclination  to 
prose,  and  Eve  would  have  thought  only  of 
putting  flowers  in  her  hair. 

See  yonder  tall  elm,  trained  to  bend  like  a 
poised  scimitar  over  the  path  ;  see  that 
knoll,  composed  of  masses  of  intertwined  blue 
and  yellow  flowers.  San  Telmo  is  a  Moorish 
garden,  and  no  race  but  the  Moors  would 
have  indulged  such  dainty   feminine  fancies. 

It  seemed  to  me— but  that  may  have  been 
mere  lack  of  observation— there  were  few 
birds  or  winged  insects,  and  little  animal  life 
of  any  kind  in  this  park,  as  if  the  Arabian 
gardeners  had  wrested  the  precinct  from 
wildness  to  bend  it  to  their  Koran-ordained 
ornamentation.  The  trees  are  not  allowed 
to  grow  naturally,  except  in  the  second  rank 
and  in  the  thickets.      Those   bordering  the 


II 


}t 


j  i 


m 


A 


156  IN    SEVILLE. 

walks  possess  no  wild  or  common  traits. 
They  follow,  in  the  outspread  of  their  bran- 
ches, the  decorous  lines  of  stuccoed  walls ; 
elms  join  their  highest  hands  in  the  arch  ; 
palms  tower  in  the  midst  of  flowering  shrubs 
like  minarets  over  villages ;  the  low  walls  of 
the  bitter  oranges,  with  their  gleaming  yel- 
low fruit,  constitute  a  broad  base  to  sustain 
the  slender  pillars  and  the  acute  angles  of 
the  pines,  laden  with  stalactites.  Here  we 
walk  through  an  enormous  Hall  of  Ambassa- 
dors, done  in  green  and  purple  and  picked 
out  in  gold. 

Is  a  conventional  picture  called  up  by  these 
words?  San  Telmo  is  not  a  conventional 
garden.  It  may  once  have  presented  a  close 
copy  of  a  gaily  tinted  interior.  Happily, 
nature  has  interfered  and  blended  colors  and 
softened  outlines  until  the  original  plan  has 
faded  into  a  vague  impression.  The  Alham- 
bra,  as  we  see  it,  is  doubtless  more  beautiful 
than  in  Boabdil's  time,  when  the  colors  were 
fresh.  And  I  prefer  San  Telmo  in  its  present 
period  of  transition.  One  may  be  glad  that 
once  it  was  pruned  and  trimmed  into  an  ab- 
normal, fantustic,  open-air  in-doors,  but  one 
is  more  apt  to  be  glad  that  the  knife  operated 
years  ago.  Farther  within,  where  the  walks 
grow  narrower,  the  impression  of  a  set  design 
entirely  vanished.      The  sunlight   flickering 


IN    SEVILLE. 


IS7 


through  rifts  in  the  leafy  roof,  gave 
shades  to  innumerable  colors  of  green.  The 
breeze  brought  us  whiffs  of  spicy  odors,  the 
breath  of  oleanders  and  Linderaxa's  roses. 
We  seemed  to  be  drawing  near  some  temple 
where  a  heathen  rite,  the  incense  of  which 
already  intoxicated  us,  was  celebrating,  as  we 
entered  those  cool,  silent  depths  of  dark 
verdure  where  the* light  faded.  Nevertheless 
it  was  always  morning  in  that  enchanted 
park.  It  had  a  morning  breath  like  an  in- 
fant's, sweet,  odorous,  moistly  warm.  The 
sky  and  the  leaves,  even  at  midday,  blended 
into  a  beautiful  color  which  was  neither  blue 
nor  green.  And  from  those  mysterious  vis- 
ions of  cypress  glades  that  we  saw  far,  far 
down  behind  countless  layers  of  leaves  there 
arose  thin  bluish  vapors  like  ghosts.  An- 
other sign  peculiar  to  morning. 

Seek  out  in  this  sensual  forest,  an  arbor 
covering  a  hillside  where  the  roots  of  the 
cypress  trees  have  returned  on  themselves 
and  made  a  tent  in  the  air — a  crusader's  tent 
guarded  by  a  gigantic  tree,  the  Templar  of 
the  garden.  No  melancholy  funereal  tree  is 
this  majestic  cypress  which  would  dwarf  the 
grave  of  any  but  a  god.  It  is  old,  and  with 
the  passing  of  the  centuries,  it  has  grown 
more  firm  and  more  colossal,  showing  its  age 
only  by  the  increased  grayness  of   its   bark. 


f 


A 


158 


IN    SEVILLE. 


by  the  division  of  its  trunk  into  sections,  a 
glorious  assemblage  of  white  and  furrowed 
trunks,  like  the  columns  that  support  the 
roof  of  a  Gothic  cathedral,  and  by  an  added 
depth  of  blackness  to  its  sombre  and  massive 
verdure.  After  having  seen  this  tree,  I  be- 
lieve in  the  centuries  of  Methusaleh. 

Might  all  I  have  said  about  San  Telmo  be 
written  of  other  gardens?  If  so,  it  is  false. 
Other  gardens  have  in  them  something  spirit- 
ual ;  San  Telmo  is  sensual.  Its  sward  is  softer, 
its  mossy  cushions  deeper,  its  shade  gayer 
than  any  place  save  Irem.  The  sunshine  falls 
there  like  flecks  of  light  on  dazzling  tiles,  the 
shades  are  only  purple  iridescenses.  And 
they  are  not  for  thought.  A  book  would  be 
out  of  place  in  San  Telmo.  Abdoolah  of 
Khorassan  might  have  received  his  first 
disgust  of  literature  while  walking  in  these 
adorable  avenues. 

Nature  here  is  a  coquettish  nymph,  trip- 
ping ever  ahead  and  ever  looking  back  over 
her  shoulder  with  an  inviting  smile  on  her  lips. 
Follow,  but  do  not  chase  her,  do  not  make 
the  mistake  of  pursuing  her  in  earnest.  San 
Telmo  has  nothing  to  offer  to  serious  people, 
to  fanatics  or  lovers.  Copy  the  smile  on  her 
lip,  call  to  her  with  gay  words,  and  if  she 
still  advances,  seat  yourself  upon  some 
mound,  or  in  an  arbor,  or  against  a  mossy 


IN    SEVILLE. 


159 


bank,  and  wait  till  she  steals  slowly  behind 
you,  stifling  her  laughter  (the  gush  of  a 
brook)  and  lays  her  white  hand  on  your 
shoulder— soft  as  the  caress  of  rustling  leaves 
— and  whispers  in  your  ear  vague  promises 
like  the  murmur  of  the  breeze  through  the 
young  grass.  The  nymph  of  this  garden  will 
never  disturb  you  by  perplexing  and 
unanswerable  questions.  She  is  no  Egeria  to 
give  advice.  But  she  will  make  you  her 
sultan,  and  with  soft  accents,  with  tender 
caresses,  that  heat  and  calm  at  the  same  in- 
stant, she  will  wrap  your  soul  into  a  bliss  that 
to  be  conserved  must  not  be  solved.  Gradual, 
but  irresistible,  is  the  working  of  her  charm. 
With  her  flickering  and  fascinating  wand  she 
metamorphoses  man — before  a  discord  in  the 
harmony  of  these  gentle  surroundings — into 
her  creature,  while  her  soft  breath  fans  his 
very  soul,  and  steals  him  away  from  the 
world.  Where  is  the  world?  What  is  it? 
We  are  not  of  it.  By  her  magic  she  quickens 
qualities  we  did  not  know  we  possessed,  or 
which  we  thought  life  had  crushed.  She  re- 
stores almost  a  feminine  delicacy  to  our  ears, 
to  our  eyes,  to  our  brains  ;  we  give  ourselves 
up  to  a  momentary  innocence ;  we  live  as 
plants  live,  as  charming  young  domestic  ani- 
mals live,   without  fear,  and  without  envy. 


il 


i6o 


IN    SEVILLE. 


We  do  not  think,  we  do  not  moralize,  and  we 
do  not  wish  to  act. 

At  our  feet  the  tiny  mosses,  the  grotesque 
fungi,  the  ferns,  inspire  us  with  the  feeling  of 
relationship.  Are  they  only  plants,  or  are 
they  children  of  strange  shapes,  radiantly 
playing  in  their  eternal  youth  ?  And  above 
our  heads  the  trees  take  many  human  forms, 
but  all  caressing ;  the  paternal  cypress,  the 
virginal  poplar,  the  pensive  beech,  the  weep- 
ing  willow— by  some  such  attributes  the 
Faun  must  once  have  designated  them. 

And  all  the  time  the  garden  lengthened 
and  widened  into  a  continent,  and  we  saw 
through  the  impenetrable  roof  to  the  sky— 
bright,  but  soft  as  a  baby's  fingers,  that 
reached  down  and  grasped  the  topmost 
leaves.  Ah,  we  were  young,  we  were  happy 
—we  dreamed  !   w^e  dreamed  ! 

Somewhere  within  this  garden,  but  I  could 
not  tell  the  seeker  how  to  find  it,  there  is  a 
pond  of  bituminous  water,  with  a  green  knoll 
on  one  bank,  where  the  dryade  of  San  Telmo 
has  made  herself  a  garden  of  gay  colored 
flowers.  The  enchanting  spot  is  surrounded 
by  proud  elms  and  birches,  whose  tops  bend 
over  and  make  a  vast  canopy,  beneath  which 
sleeps  the  nymph.  The  pond  is  full  of  water, 
still  and  black,  and  Egyptian  lilies  fringe  its 


IN    SEVILLE. 


l6l 


edge  where  the  vulgar  bulrushes  have  left 
them  space  to  swim. 

On  the  other  bank  rises  a  singular  aggre- 
gation of  tree  trunks,  like  a  tower.  The 
branches  form  almost  the  angles  of  architect- 
ure, and  the  square  mass  of  foliage  above 
constitutes  a  verdant  mirador.  The  trunks 
of  the  trees  are  swathed  with  lichen,  in  fes- 
toons, and  from  every  fork  of  the  branches 
droop  mistletoe  and  ivy  in  wild  arabesques. 

With  her  finger  on  her  lip,  the  dryade 
pointed  out  to  me  that  mirador  where,  behind 
the  lattice  of  vine  and  leaf,  near  the  cool 
water,  the  jealous  Arab-Sultan  of  this  wood 
shuts  up  his  princess.  Reclining  by  day  on 
the  knoll  I  fancied  I  heard  agitating  sounds 
proceeding  from  that  tower,  which  is  a  dun- 
g^eon;  laughter  like  the  gush  of  a  fountain; 
tinkling  of  bracelets  and  girdles  of  precious 
metals  ;  sighs  ;  and  once  I  saw,  as  if  a  w^hite 
finger  had  brushed  aside  a  leaf,  the  flash  of 
an  eye  on  the  water,  like  a  shooting  star  trail- 
ing its  fiery  wake. 

If  I  could  have  contrived  to  watch  a  moon- 
light hour  on  that  knoll,  who  doubts— I  do 
not — but  that  I  would  have  seen  Zorayda 
come  down  to  the  water's  edge,  mirroring 
the  crescent  in  her  full  eyes— breathing 
on  the  night  a  perfume  as  of  flowers  ? 


»  .  t 


Mi 


M 


l62 


IN   SEVILLE. 


XIV. 

THE  brilliant  spring  sun  put  torpor  in  our 
blood,  and  notwithstanding  the  presenti- 
ment we  had  of  future  regret  for  time  wasted^ 
we  lay  all  our  waking  hours  staring  at  the 
sky.      About   this   simple  act   which   might 
have  seemed  impertinent   as  well  as  lazy  at 
home,  there  appertained  in  Seville  a  certain 
sort  of  power.     For,  though  we  were  always 
vanquished  in  the  end  by  the  implacable  in- 
tensity of  the  light,  yet  so  long  as  we  could 
look  the  sky  seemed  to  retreat  and  its  azure 
grew  deeper,  like  the  hue  on  the  cheek  of  a 
self-conscious  beauty.     This  unequal  and  hu- 
miliating contest  was  carried  on  of  mornings 
in  the  patio  of  the  Carasa,  over  which   had 
not  yet  been  drawn  the  velarium  or  awning 
roof,  and  we  varied  it  by  withdrawing  to  our 
oratory  rooms,   ostensibly   for  a  siesta,   but 
really  to  stare  out  of  the  narrow  window  at 
the  narrow  street,  which  baked  and  burned 
and  seemed  to  try  to  escape  from  the  fiery 
sun  shower  by  crowding  as  closely  as  possi- 
ble up  to  the  stuccoed  houses.     The  donkeys 
followed   this   example   and  edged  leisurely 
along  the  walls,  leaving  only  a  narrow  path 
in  the  full  glare  for  the  unhappy  pedestrian. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


165 


And  as  he  mopped  his  dripping  brow  we 
drained  an  unglazed  jug  of  cold  water  and 
laughed,  so  hard  our  hearts  had  been  baked 
in  this  oven  of  Seville. 

We  were  thrown  upon  our  own  resources 
in  these  eventless  days.  The  cadets  remained 
indoors,  pretending  to  prepare  for  the  alge- 
bra examination,  and  the  priests  slept  all 
night  and  most  of  the  day,  in  order  to  lay  up 
a  store  of  strength  for  the  arduous  labors  of 
Holy  Week,  which  was  near  at  hand.  Clearly 
there  was  nothing  left  for  us  but  to  dream 
away  the  hours  in  the  Carasa' s  portico,  but 
we  foresaw  the  day  of  repentance  and  some- 
times forcibly  broke  the  drowsy  spell. 

It  was  in  one  of  those  spasms  of  reform 
that  at  noon  of  the  hottest  day  we  had  ex- 
perienced, we  stumbled  upon  a  square  to  the 
south  of  the  Nueva,  a  tiny  square  white  as 
lime  could  make  it,  bounded  by  two-story 
white  houses  and  looking  as  if  it  had  been 
scooped  out  of  a  sugar-loaf  to  serve  as  a  bowl 
for  a  cover  of  lapis-lazuli  sky.  There  were  no 
trees  in  the  square,  and  there  were  no  green 
blinds  to  the  houses,  and  yet  its  color  was  so 
splendid  as  to  remind  us  of  Seville's  African 
descent.  It  was  a  market  d?,y,  and  fruits  and 
vegetables  in  many  varieties  were  exposed 
for  sale  there,  which  were  of  colors  gorgeous 
enough  to   complete   the  intoxication  of  an 


.  / 


Jf/# 


164 


IN    SEVILLE. 


IN    SEVILLE. 


already  drunken  impressionist.  Olives — 
large,  lovely  olives  that  had  by  good  luck 
escaped  the  oil  mill,  and  deep  green  melons 
formed  an  enchanting  bed,  on  which  had 
been  thrown  in  confusion  and  carelessly,  but  I 
think  with  an  eye  to  effect,  clusters  of  clear, 
yellow  grapes,  like  amber  beads ;  tangerine 
oranges  with  coats  of  red-gold  reminding  one 
of  the  flavor  within,  and  pomegranates  that 
had  burst  their  rinds  in  falling  and  spilled 
some  rubies  for  the  first  marauding  hand. 
Near  the  centre  of  the  square  the  vege- 
tables were  heaped,  and  mats  piled  high 
with  chick-peas,  like  a  pale- gold  rampart, 
by  accident  or  design,  separated  the 
vulgar  from  the  aristocratic  classes  of  this 
gorgeous  kingdom.  Yet  there  were  inter- 
lopers, as  there  always  are,  even  in  the  creme 
de  la  cremey  and  these  were  the  fiery  red  pep- 
pers which  swung  down  in  garlands  and 
touched  with  the  least  movement  the  foot  of 
Monsieur  Melon,  or  grazed  the  face  of 
Mademoiselle  Pomegranate.  Moreover  the 
grapes — for  there  are  always  aristocrats  who 
lean  toward  the  people — scaled  the  rampart 
and  hung  in  heavy  clusters  of  a  bluish  color, 
or  in  bunches  which  were  of  an  amethystine 
hue,  almost  within  reach  of  the  flaunting  cab- 
bage and  the  vulgar  onion.  At  the  first  glance 
it  all  looked  like  the  contents  of  an  enormous 


165 


basket  emptied  in  the  square.  But  a  second 
look  showed  that  the  pile  was  divided  into 
many  heaps,  beside  which  proudly  sat  the 
fruit  sellers,  some  of  them  as  gayly  attired  as 
their  vegetables,  protected  from  the  sun  only 
by  their  paper  fans  held  against  the  cheek. 
They  had  been  sitting  there  the  whole  morn- 
ing and  not  a  woman  had  been  sun-struck 
yet.  As  the  sun  climbed  they  advanced  the 
little  fan  against  him,  and  continued  chatter- 
ing with  that  Andalusian  volubility  which  is 
.graceful  even  in  the  market  women. 

The  same  gayety  and  animation  was  visi- 
ble everywhere  throughout  the  city  at  the 
approach  of  summer.  A  great  many  of  the 
ordinary  occupations  of  housekeepers  were 
carried  on  in  the  balconies,  in  full  view  of 
the  passers-by,  and  our  eyes  found  nothing 
to  hinder  them  from  looking  through  the 
large  grated  windows  and  glass  doors  into 
the  interior  of  the  houses.  As  we  paused  to 
look  into  a  patio  with  marble  columns,  which 
was  crowded  with  flowers,  the  skins  of 
tomatoes,  which  some  one  in  a  balcony  was 
peeling  for  dinner,  would  fall  at  our  feet,  or, 
by  bad  luck,  on  our  heads,  but  as  this  was 
equally  apt  to  befall  the  oldest  and  gravest 
citizens,  we  concluded  it  was  not  meant  as  a 
gentle  hint  for  the  strangers  to  move  on. 
Every  body  looked  in  the  windows  at  girls 


i66 


IN   SEVILLE. 


sewing  or  playing  the  piano  or  the  guitar  ; 
but  nobody  seemed  to  regard  this  as  intru- 
sive ;  on  the  contrary,  all  continued  their 
work  without  self-consciousness  and  without 
annoyance. 

Pinks  in  the  balconies,  and  myrtle,  pome- 
granates, and  oleanders  grouped  about  a 
marble  basin  in  the  centre  of  the  patios, 
where  a  slender  thread  of  water  rose  and 
fell,  worked  a  wonderful  transformation  in 
these  old  streets  of  Seville.  It  was  difficult 
to  believe  they  were  the  same  streets  which 
had  looked  so  tortuous  and  dark  in  the 
winter.  But  the  ancient  buildings  had  a 
character  too  marked  for  us  to  ever  mistake, 
having  once  seen  them.  Our  confusion  arose 
from  perceiving  what  a  gay  interior  the 
rough  walls,  with  coarse  carvings  near  the 
roof  and  over  doors  and  windows,  frequently 
enclosed.  The  night  time,  however,  was  the 
real  festival  of  the  patios.  Then  walking 
about  the  streets  was  like  a  promenade 
through  a  succession  of  drawing-rooms.  At 
this  season  the  family  bring  down  sofas  and 
chairs,  upholstered  in  horse  hair,  and  set 
them,  along  with  the  piano,  in  the  arcades, 
while  cane-seated  chairs  and  the  beloved 
rockers  are  scattered  about  among  the  palms 
and  oleanders.  Bird  cages  hang  from  the 
shrubbery,  and  quinques  on  the  piano,  candles 


IN   SEVILLE. 


167 


everywhere,  and  the  great  lantern  suspended 
near  the  centre,  light  up  a  true  Andalusian 
scene.  With  the  linen  awning  striped  with 
gay  colors,  calle'd  in  Spanish  a  toldo,  the 
floor  tiled  with  bright  contrasting  marbles, 
the  numberless  flowers  and  the  thick  leaves 
of  hortensia  and  orange,  and  with— ah,  with 
the  beautiful  Sevillian  ladies  in  summer 
gowns  of  high  colors,  flitting  about  like 
human  flowers,  these  patios  are  enchanting 
as  Irem !  Guitars  suspended  on  the  walls 
cast  brilliant  reflections  out  of  the  shadow  as 
the  light  glinted  on  their  varnished  surfaces, 
and  beside  them  hung  the  brown  disks  of  tam- 
bourines. Everything  betokened  the  love  of 
life  ;  everything  invited  to  the  song. or  to  the 
dance,  and  we  were  often  unbidden,  but  none 
the  less  welcomed  spectators  of  the  gay 
measure  and  listeners  to  the  sentimental  carol. 
I  say  "  we,"  but  really  these  guests  at  the 
gate  included  all  chance  pedestrians,  who 
were  at  liberty  to  stop  to  listen  to  the  music 
without  giving  offence,  and  when  it  ceased 
go  on  their  way. 

As  April  grew  older  the  fierce  Andalusian 
sun  waxed  more  terrible.  With  every  turn 
he  seemed  to  crack  a  whip-lash  of  fire  that 
drove  us  with  tingling  faces  into  the  refuge 
of  the  shadowy  Carasa.  The  Cura  laughed 
at  me  when   I  complained  of  the  heat,  and 


A 


i68 


IN    SEVILLE. 


bade  me  remain  until  the  true  summer  came 
if  I  wished  to  comprehend  the  might  of  the 
sky  monarch.  "  Wait,"  he  said,  '*  until  it  is 
so  hot  they  are  obliged  to  cover  the  Sierpes 
with  an  awning." 

At  night  it  grew  decidedly  cooler,  and 
when  we  were  not  making  a  tour  of  the 
patios,  we  used  to  go  down  to  the  river  bank 
where  crowds  fiocked  to  breathe  the  refresh- 
ing breeze.  This  was  a  most  romantic  prom- 
enade of  moonlight  nights,  when  the  provi- 
dent alcalde  puts  out  the  lamps.  On  the  stone 
benches  along  the  wall  that  separates  the 
walk  from  the  quay,  many  women  were  sit- 
ting, that  seen  in  the  dim  light  under  the 
trees  and  in  a  moment  of  silence,  resembled 
pretty  reclining  statues  by  a  modern  sculptor. 
There  were  not  many  moments  of  silence^ 
and  the  pretty  uncovered  or  lace  veiled 
heads  were  commonly  nodding  in  rapid 
movements  like  a  humming-bird's,  and  black 
eyes  flashed  and  white  teeth  glistened  in  the 
checkered  moonlight,  while  silvery  voices 
and  repressed  outbursts  of  laughter  echoed 
along  the  line. 

One  night  we  walked  here  with  Don 
Ceferino,  the  cadet,  and  we  knew  not  whether 
to  be  ashamed  or  diverted  by  his  behavior. 
At  his  caprice  he  would  stop  before  any 
woman   and  give  her  an  expressive  glance ; 


IN    SEVILLE. 


169 


when  she  did  not  look  up  he  would  attract 
her  attention  by  rapping  his  cane  on  the 
pavement.  No  one  seemed  to  feel  insulted, 
but  all  either  smiled  pleasantly  in  return  for 
the  implied  flattery  or  laughed  outright,while 
a  few  more  forward  answered  his  grotesque 
gesture  of  admiration  with  absurd  grimaces, 
which  mightily  pleased  their  neighbors  and 
sent  our  military  friend  off  into  a  roar  of 
laughter.  So  frank  and  mischievous  seemed 
to  be  both  parties  to  this  childish  game,  that 
it  would  require  a  stern  pessimist  to  discover 
any  harm  in  it.  But  in  my  opinion  there  are 
no  pessimists  in  Seville,  especially  in  spring; 
the  air  is  fatal  to  them. 

Early  in  the  evening  we  followed  every- 
body to  the  promenade  of  Las  Delicias. 
Those  gardens  which  we  had  always  loved 
were  a  thousand  times  more  attractive  now 
in  their  spring  garb  that  had  come  no  man 
knew  when.  Roses  and  carnations  were 
blooming  everywhere,  in  the  plants  and  in 
the  cheeks  of  the  Sevillians,  who  had  washed 
off  the  protective  coats  of  cristilla  they  had 
worn  in  the  winter.  Many  ladies  whom  we 
had  often  seen  driving  in  their  carriages  in 
the  afternoon  now  came  on  foot  with  their 
children.  The  younger  beauties  also  became 
pedestrians,  coming  to  the  paseo  in  parties 
of  two  or  more  under  the  escort  of  an  old 


lyo 


IX    SEVILLE. 


aunt  or  mother.  Behind  these  parties  hovered 
the  youths  waiting,  for  a  sign  of  encourage- 
ment  to  come  forward  and  join  the  group. 
Other  ladies  who  had  arrived  at  the  age  of 
disinterested  gossip  take  their  seats  in  chairs 
arranged  in  circles,  and  hold  their  tertulias 
under  the  trees. 

For  a  time  the  scene  is  a  very  animated 
and  changing  one.     There  is   much  walking 
about  and  shifting  of  places,  but  at   length 
the  tertulias  are  filled;  Casilda  has  summoned 
the  right  young  man ;    her  old   parent  has 
secured  a  seat  to  her  taste,  and  the  multitude 
have  settled   themselves    for  two   or    three 
hours'    placid    enjoyment.     Nobody    moves 
anything  but  his   tongue  for   that  space   of 
time,  except  the  boys  who  carry  about  lighted 
matches  for  the  smokers'  accommodation ;  or 
the  old  women  running  up  and  down,  prais- 
ing their  fruits  and  dulces;  or  the  waiters  of 
a  neighboring  cafe  bringing  ices  and  sherbets 
to  their  patrons.     It  is  entertaining  to  follow 
these  waiters  on   their  rounds  and  hear  the 
orders   they  take    for    different    drinks,   all 
harmless  as  water,  but  none  of  them  water- 
pshaw  !     The  Spaniard  is  sober,  but  he  has  a 
mortal  aversion  to  drinking  water  clear— he 
always  puts  something    in    it,  the    favorite 
thing  being  sugar-curls,  which  each  individ- 
ual seems  to  call  by  a  different  name— azu- 


IN    SEVILLE. 


i;i 


carillos,  espenjados,  doledos,  are  some  of 
them — but  there  are  many  other  designa- 
tions, and  all  of  them  mean  nearly  the  same 
thing. 

But  what  have  we  to  do  with  the  com- 
monplaceness  of  drink?  The  Spanish  moon 
is  up  and  throwing  her  spell  on  the  people. 
In  every  group  a  guitar  softly  tinkles ;  in  the 
mysterious  walks  promenaders  show  their 
gliding  shadows;  tender  couples,  in  tune  to 
the  music,  are  cooing  on  chairs  and  benches, 
and  the  scene  has  all  the  luxuriance  of  ro- 
mance which  poets  have  taught  us  to  look  for 
in  Spain,  and  which  we  would  weep  not  to 
see. 
*****  ^  * 

So  we  staid  on— lingering  irresolute,  with 
trunks  half-packed,  meaning  to  go  each  day, 
to  escape  the  heat  and  the  crowd,  and 
charmed  into  remaining  yet  another  day,  by 
the  moon  as  it  came  to  rise.  The  days  were 
full  of  regret  for  wasted  time;  the  nights 
were  full  of  moonlight. 

Meantime,  portents  of  summer  thickened. 
Tourists  were  upon  us— tourists  with  bulky 
note  books,  a  glance  askance  at  which  re- 
minded us  that  we  could  not  add  a  foot  to 
the  stature  of  La  Giralda  nor  a  color  to  the 
Alcazar  without  being  found  out.  A  party 
of  German  travelers  were  at  the  Madrid,  and 


I  I 


t 


r:-\ 


172 


IN    SEVILLE. 


at  Mariana's — so  our  old  friend,  the  cadet, 
stopped  on  the  street  to  tell  us — two  young 
Englishmen,  in  knickerbockers,  had  engaged 
board.  Lastly,  a  sacristan's  assistant,  a  pal- 
try fellow  who  had  seen  us  scores  of  times 
hand-in-glove  with  the  archbishop,  came  for- 
ward one  day  when  we  chanced  to  stray  into 
the  cathedral  and  inquired  if  the  Inglesas  cared 
to  step  into  the  sacristy  to  see  the  Pacheco  ? 
That  decided  us,  and  doubt  disappeared. 
The  choice  was  ours  no  longer.  Adios,  Sevilla, 
we  said,  and  added,  with  full  hearts  hasta  la 
otra  vista!  But, ah  !  we  said  this  in  English, 
for  people  say  what  they  mean,  in  their  native 
tongue — "  Good-by,  Seville,  and  may  we  see 
you  soon  again !  *' 


i       I 


\ 


THREE  TOLEDAN  DAYS. 


THREE  TOLEDAN  DAYS. 


I. 


WE  went  to  Toledo  in  the  winter  when  vis- 
itors are  advised  to  stay  away.  The 
weather  treated  us  very  considerately,  how- 
ever, and  we  have  no  complaint  to  make  of 
it.  The  citizens  of  the  capital  of  the  Visi- 
goths are  much  sharper  and  colder  than  the 
weather.  It  is  hardly  an  exaggeration  to  say 
that  the  Fonda  de  Lino — the  barrack  which 
outrages  the  name  of  hotel — is  a  den  of 
thieves.  It  gave  us  animated  beds,  it  sup- 
plied nine  meals  of  beans  which  we  must  eat 
or  starve,  and  it  charged  Paris  prices  for 
both.  But — chiefest  indignity — it  introduced 
us  to  Alexis  Amaudry. 

Alexis  Amaudrv  was  an  "  illustrious  Gaudis- 
sart ;"  he  sold  a  premiere  qualite  of  sparkling 
sillery,  and  came  twice  a  )^ear  to  Toledo.  He 
was  so  polite  as  to  offer  his  services  as  guide, 
and  for  that  reason,  and  because  he  was  the 
essence  of  good  nature  and  full  of  poetr}^  we 
tried  to  be  grateful  to  him.  Nevertheless 
Alexis  Amaudry  w^as  an  unmitigated  bore. 


176 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


He  never  talked  of  wine,  but  constantly  of  the 
picturesque,  of  which,  as  well  as  chocolate, 
he  was  passionately  fond.  Through  him  we 
made  the  acquaintance  of  all  the  chocola- 
terias  of  Toledo. 

That  first  afternoon  Alexis  carried  us  to  the 
sword  manufactory,  although  we  longed  to 
pay  a  preliminary  visit  to  the  cathedral.  On 
the  way  we  passed  under  the  Gate  of  the 
Sun,  but  we  were  not  yet  prepared  to  admire 
its  simple  yet  massive  proportions.  The  gate 
stands  half  way  between  the  steep  ascentto  the 
Alcazar  and  the  steep  descent  to  the  bridge 
of  Alcantara,  and  our  untutored  minds  reck- 
oned it  a  rude  construction  of  brick  which 
we  could  not  place,  neither  with  the  dainty 
monuments  left  by  the  Moors,  nor  with  the 
rugged  but  noble  ruins  that  are  Gothic. 

We  did  not  cross  the  river,  but  held  along 
the  sloping  highway  to  the  Cambron  Gate, 
whence  we  emerged  from  the  city  and 
scrambled  down,  accompanied  by  dislodged 
pebbles  and  showers  of  dust,  to  a  road  that 
winds  in  the  fertile  vega  between  the  walls  of 
the  city  and  the  Tagus.  This  wide  and  well- 
kept  road  follows  around  the  upper  half  of  a 
circle  marked  out  by  grass-grown  hummocks, 
but  so  dimly  that  scarcely  any  idea  is  pre- 
sented to  the  mind  of  him  who  hears  that  this 
was  the  Roman  circus  in  Marcus  Fulvius'  time 


] 


f 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


177 


/ 


when  Toledo  was  Toletum.  The  circus  is 
like  Toledo  ;  so  old  and  so  far  gone  in  decay 
that  it  deadens  rather  than  quickens  the  im- 
agination striving  to  resurrect  its  past.  The 
Primate  City  chokes  the  mind  with  a  thick 
dust  of  concentrated  antiquity.  If  I  had  been 
told  that  its  hill  was  Ararat  and  the  town 
upon  it  the  dust  heap  of  the  Ark,  1  would 
have  accepted  the  statement  with  stolid 
credulity. 

Such  a  state  of  mind  has  its  drawbacks.  It 
renders  disappointing  every  thing  not  of 
the  oldest.  Where  so  much  was  too  antique 
to  longer  count  among  things  of  account,  I 
got  the  impression  that  the  Fabrica  de  Armas 
was  a  contemporary  of  the  circus,  and  used 
to  furnish  weapons  to  its  gladiators.  I  felt, 
not  a  surprise  merely,  but  a  bitter  pang, 
when  I  saw  that  the  Fabrica  is  still  above 
ground,  an  ugly  modern  building  that  might 
stand  in  Connecticut  without  exciting  remark, 
and  engage  in  supplying  the  wants,  in  the 
knife  and  fork  line,  of  the  people  of  this  gener- 
ation. How  can  one  keep  in  mind  the  romance, 
brave  deed,  noble  life  that  a  Toledo  blade  sug- 
gests, after  one  visits  the  prosaic  surroundings 
where  the  sword  was  forged  and  tempered  ? 
If  I  tried,  I  might  succeed  in  describing  the 
various  departments  of  the  factory  ;  (Alexis 
dragged   us   through   them  all)  I  might  say 


■ 


» 


1 


178 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


that  the  smiths  have  their  forges  on  the 
ground  floor  and  the  pattern  makers  and 
workers  in  aqua  fortis  have  theirs  on  the 
second  floor.  1  might  tell  how  many  men 
are  employed,  but  the  result  I  would  obtain 
from  these  statistics  is  one  I  wished  to  forget 
— that  I  had  visited  a  poor  second  rate  manu- 
factory whose  past  glory  is  tarnished  by  a 
modern  struggle  for  existence.  Such  vague 
ideas  as  I  gathered  of  the  workmen  and  their 
methods  I  made  haste  to  forget  upon  regain- 
ing  the  plain,  and  I  eagerly  relaid  the  stones 
of  my  imagined  workshop  fit  to  give  swords 
to  the  Cid,  to  Alonzoof  Cordova  and  Medina 
Sidonia. 

We  did  not  return  to  the  city  as  we  had 
gone  out,  by  the  Cambron,  but  turned  to  the 
right  and  scaled  a  steep  embankment  under 
the  frown  of  a  lofty  black  fagade.  This  was 
St.  John  of  the  Kings,  built  by  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella  as  their  sepulchral  chapel,  but  in 
which  they  are  not  buried.  We  walked  the 
length  of  the  ugly,  blind,  west  wall  of  the 
building,  and  vigorously  pounded  the  knock- 
er of  a  heavy  but  half  decayed  door.  In 
response,  a  woman  leaned  out  of  a  window 
over  the  gate,  and,  without  speaking,  threw 
down  a  great  iron  key.  Alexis  instantly  fitted 
it  into  its  ward,  we  stepped  within,  and  the 
woman  pulled  to  the  door,  leaving  us  to  feel 


^ 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


179 


our  way  down  a  short  flight  of  steps  in  almost 
total  darkness.  When  our  eyes  had  suited 
themselves  to  the  faint  light,  we  found  that 
we  were  in  the  museum,  or  curiosity  shop, 
of  the  old  Franciscan  convent.  Broken  tiles, 
smashed  columns,  fragments  of  Moorish  well- 
curbs  and  bits  of  carving  littered  the  floor, 
and  a  rude  bench  was  next  to  the  wall.  Under 
an  arch  at  the  farther  end  a  subdued  light 
entered.  It  was  a  pointed  Gothic  arch,  and, 
passing  through,  we  obtained  a  vista  of  many 
Gothic  arches — the  cloister  of  the  convent, 
a  gem  of  Isabella's  building. 

The  part  surprise  has  to  do  with  our  pleas- 
ure can  hardly  be  overestimated,  and,  I  think, 
we  needed  just  such  an  ugly  husk  as  the  out- 
side of  this  cloister  in  order  to  appreciate  its 
jewel-like  beauty.  Much  to  the  relief  of 
Alexis,  who  had  been,  in  a  measure,  cast 
down  by  our  indifference  in  the  sword  works, 
we  did  not  repress  the  exclamations  of  delight 
that  rose  to  our  lips  at  sigbt  of  these  exquisite 
marble  corridors.  The  cloister  is  Gothic,  but 
Gothic  in  little.  No  awful  solemnity  reigns 
in  these  arches,  but  the  builder  displays  a 
human,  even  a  tricky,  Spirit ;  he  seems  to 
have  played  a  little  with  his  art,  but  without 
vulgarizing  it.  The  walls  are  low,  the  arches 
loving,  the  columns  slender  to  fragility,  and 
the  man  who  built  here  could  have  had  no 


t8o 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


sympathy  with  the  haughty  Ximenez.  Luck- 
ily, the  cardinal  did  not  see  this  cloister  until 
after  it  was  completed  and  had  received  the 
sanction  of  Isabella's  approval.  Nowhere 
else  in  Gothic  art  can  one  find  such  a  grace- 
ful bending  of  Its  stateliness,  without  loss  of 
caste,  to  the  small,  the  modest,  the  light. 
This  Franciscan  cloister  is  the  child — the  only 
child — of  Gothic  architecture.  All  other 
forms  of  it  are  austerely  grown  up. 

The  restorers  have  been  called  into  these 
cloisters,  but  they  have  done  their  work 
admirably,  and  there  is  not,  as  there  would 
be  in  a  damp  climate,  a  painful  contrast  be- 
tween the  fresh  marble  and  the  old,  that  has 
changed  but  to  a  deep  yellow  in  four  centuries. 
Besides,  the  copyist  finds  his  work  easy  here, 
the  prevailing  character  of  the  carving  being 
susceptible  of  modern  imitation.  There  is 
such  diversity  of  ornament  between  every 
pair  of  arches  that  if  the  sculptor  lets  his 
chisel  work  out  any  tracery  of  leaves,  or  fruit, 
or  twining  vines,  or  grotesque  forms  of  men 
and  animals,  he  can  hardly  go  wrong. 

We  entered  the  chapel  not  by  the  door, 
but  by  means  of  a  narrow,  dusty  and  dusky 
staircase,  and  a  veritable  hole  in  the  wall, 
through  which  we  crawled  and  then  stood 
on  a  hanging  marble  gallery  overlooking  the 
great  nave.      The   church,   notwithstanding 


I 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


l8l 


much  carving  of  badges,  shields  and  inscrip- 
tions, is  pitifully  bare.  It  has  but  one  altar, 
which  stands  at  the  western  end,  adorned 
with  a  handful  of  artificial  flowers  in  common 
vases. 

San  Juan,  however,  is  not  responsible  for 
its  poverty  in  monuments.  At  one  time  as 
rich  as  Westminster,  it  has,  more  than  any 
other  Spanish  church,  suffered  outrage  and 
spoliation  in  times  of  war.  Itself  the  outcome 
of  a  victory,  it  has  sown  the  wind  to  reap  the 
whirlwind.  La  Houssaye  was  its  last  and 
worst  despoiler,  although  he  is  said  by  some 
to  have  made  an  effort  to  save  the  chapel  by 
giving  over  the  cloister  to  the  torch  and 
sword  of  his  soldiers.  The  Spaniards  do  not 
say  this.  With  them  he  is  in  such  bad  odor 
that  they  do  not  hesitate  to  affirm  he  caused 
step  ladders  to  be  brought  into  the  church  in 
order  to  reach  and  demolish  a  dado  of  angels* 
heads  carved  round  the  walls,  and  swore 
like  a  fiend,  because  they  were  too  short. 
These  children's  faces,  encircling  capitals 
and  pillars,  still  smile  at  you  with  lovely  lips 
and  eyes,  and  it  is  for  the  purpose  of  obtain- 
ing a  good  view  of  this  unique  decoration, 
the  visitor  is  brought  to  inspect  the  chapel 
from  the  gallery.  * 

Leaving  the  convent  we  went  along  a  street 
that  is  more  alley  than  street,  and  more  like 


l82 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


the  rear  of  an  Irishman's  cabin  than  either. 
It  afforded  difficult  footing  except  where 
garbage  and  cinder  heaps  raised  the  declina- 
tion of  the  hill  to  the  level  of  the  cottages. 
This  way  followed  at  a  safe  elevation  the 
windings  of  the  roaring  Tagus,  and  conducted 
to  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  la  Blanca,  once 
a  synagogue,  standing  in  what  was  anciently 
the  Jews'  quarters.  In  front  of  their  doors 
sat  dark-hued  women  looking  with  a  sad  ex- 
pression at  their  hair.  At  first  we  took  them 
for  daughters  of  Israel  mourning  by  the 
waters  of  Babylon.  A  second  look  told  us 
they  were  not  Jewesses,  and  their  hair-tear- 
ing was  a  penance  ordered  by  necessity 
rather  than  sentiment. 

Santa  Maria  is  a  poor  ghost,  an  attenuated 
spirit  of  dismal  whiteness  projected  against 
a  black  cave.  The  roof  is  blind,  and  light 
enters  through  the  portal  like  a  nervous 
girl  ready  to  fly  at  the  first  word  of  love. 
Five  octagonal  piers  lift  up  horseshoe  arches, 
and  piers  and  arches  are  thickly  whitewashed. 
A  conch-shaped  recess  behind  the  high  altar 
alone  preserves  the  dazzling  effects  of  color 
and  fascinating  elegancies  of  detail,  which 
were  the  enthusiasm  of  the  Morisco  twelfth 
century. 

The  other  synagogue,  Nuestra  Senora  del 
Transito,  where  we  went  next,  is  better  pre- 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


183 


served.  It  is  not  so  old  and  must  always 
have  been  finer,  though  not  so  distinctly 
Arabic  in  style.  Light  is  admitted  in  an 
agreeable  manner  by  openings  around  the 
walls  just  beneath  the  splendid  Artisonado 
roof— the  latter  being  the  crowning  beauty 
of  this  temple.  The  roof  was  undergoing 
repairs,  and  we  brought  away  a  clearer  vis- 
ion of  scaffolding,  piles  of  tie-beams,  barrels 
of  plaster,  than  of  the  product  of  the  Moorish 
artisans.  Not  that  the  Spanish  carpenters 
were  at  work,  they  were  not  even  pretend- 
ing, but  they  were  about  the  premises  and 
made  themselves  so  prominent  as  to  drive 
out  of  imagination,  as  their  ancestors  had 
done  out  of  Spain,  the  turbaned  craftsmen. 

Speaking  as  the  crow  flies,  ruins  of  a  palace 
built  by  Pedro  the  Cruel  lie  near  by  the  Paseo 
del  Transito,  and  we  thought  to  improve  the 
time  by  going  alone  to  see  them,  that  is  to 
say,  unaccompanied  by  the  obliging  Alexis, 
who  began  to  be  too  obliging  for  mere  human 
nature.  His  untiring  and  exuberant  enthu- 
siasm that  went  along  rolling  up  adjectives 
and  exclamations  like  a  snow  ball,  with  every 
step  of  our  progress,  at  last  worried  us  so 
that  we  would  have  liked  to  give  it  a  push 
down  the  slope  into  the  Tagus  and  so  be  quit 
of  it,  Alexis  had  a  formula  that  he  used  to 
point  out  the  view,  to  direct  to  a  carved  door, 


:¥^ 


/ 


1 84 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


to  lay  before  a  shrine.  This  was  "  plus  ma- 
gnifique  !  plus  pittoresque  !  plus  drole  !"  In 
despair  we  wondered  for  which  of  our  sins 
Alexis  was  the  punishment. 

In  a  very  small  and  dirty  cafe  of  the  Paseo 
we  seated  Alexis,  and  went  out  ostensibly  to 
wait  for  him,   but  really  to  lose  him.     The 
result  was  that  we  lost  ourselves,  as  a  cold 
gleam   in  Alexis*  eye  had  predicted.       The 
route  to  Pedro's  nalace  was  plain  enough  on 
the  map ;  we  had  but  to   follow   the   street 
called  Taller  del  Moro,  after  a  house  reputed 
to  be  the  most  beautiful  Moorish  building  in 
the  city,  until  we  reached  the  street  called 
Santa  Ursula.     After  that,  a  blind  man  could 
discover  the   ruined  palace.      So   we  said, 
while  traversing  the  Ursula,   with  our  eyes 
fixed  on  a  large  building  at  the  end.     Was 
this  the  ruin  ?  No,  our  map  marked  it  plainly 
as  the  convent  of  Saint  Bartholomew.      The 
same  invaluable  paper  informed  us  that  the 
walls    behind     the    Bartholomew    enclosed 
another  convent,  the  Santa    Isabel,   behind 
which,   in   turn,  stood  the  remains  of   Don 
Pedro's  palace.  Forward,  then,  to  cut  through 
these  sanctuaries  of  the  Middle  Ages,  which 
still  preserve  a  feeble  life,  to   the  barbarism 
they  ameliorated,  which  is  dead. 

But  the  invaluable   map  did  not   picture 
how  another  street  mysteriously  joined  the 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


i8S 


Ursula,  and  formed  almost  a  complete  circle. 
We  made  the  discoverv  unaided,  and  wan- 
dered  on,  climbed  steep  acclivities,  descended 
into  black  lanes— meeting  now  and  then  a 
shadowy  figure  that  was  swallowed  up  by 
the  deeper  gloom  of  a  portal  before  we  could 
interrogate  it — and  twice  returned  upon  our 
steps,  and  twice  stood  before  the  thick  wall 
of  the  convent  of  St.  Bartholomew. 

We  rang  the  convent  bell  three  times,  but 
nobody  came,  and  again  we  dragged  ourselves 
— hankering  in  secret  for  Alexis — along  the 
unknown  wynd,  which  continues  the  Ursula. 
But  this  time  we  observed  an  arch-way,  and 
taking  our  lives  in  our  hand  we  plunged  be- 
neath it.  A  steep,  narrow  lane  precipitated  us 
on  to  the  Paseo  del  Transito.  Sidling  across, 
with  an  eye  to  Alexis  in  the  cafe,  and  clam- 
bering down  the  precipice,  we  rested  on  the 
grass-grown  foundation  of  a  bridge  that  has 
been  washed  away,  and  stared  into  the  Tagus 
flowing  beneath. 

It  was  late  afternoon.  The  sun,  setting  on 
the  other  side  of  the  cit3%  threw  slanting,  red 
reflections  on  the  hills,  that  rose,  like  cannon 
balls  one  above  the  other,  and  left  the  river  a 
sombre,  inky  stain.  The  first  stars  faintly 
twinkled  in  the  sky.  It  was  still.  No  sounds 
came  from  the  city,  and  the  Tagus  at  this  point 
hushes  its  angry  murmur.      We  were  alone^ 


1 86 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


yet  we  were  surrounded  as  we  had  not  been  be- 
fore that  day.  Goth,  Roman,  Arab  and  Chris- 
tian came  down  the  bank  and  clamored  in  our 
ears  the  tale  of  how  Toledo  had  fared  at  the 
hand  of  each.  Recollections  that  the  desolate 
streets  could  not  evoke,  now  flooded  the  spot 
that  had  seen  all  these  conquerors  but  yielded 
to  none,  that  had  preserved  inviolate  its 
loyalty  to  nature.  The  city  had  kept  a  sullen 
silence  when  we  asked  it  for  memories.  The 
barren  rock,  which  had  cast  off  the  shackle  of 
a  bridge,  teemed  unsolicited  with  innumer- 
able voices. 

As  we  listened,  another  voice  sounded  in 
•our  ears — the  voice  of  Alexis.  He  stood  by 
us,  but  we  had  not  heard  him  descend.  He 
-assumed  a  taller  stature.  He  threw  back  his 
head  and  waved  his  hand  toward  the  further 
shore.  **  Ah  !"  he  exclaimed,  **  I  felt  that  we 
are  affined.  Tell  me — without  compliment — 
if  we  are  not  affined  I  La  campagne !  La 
riviere !  La  niiit !  We  love  them  alike. 
-Come,  it  is  necessary  that  we  go  to  dine." 

Night  hugged  close  the  narrow  ways 
through  which  we  followed  our  guide,  but 
the  sky,  when  w^e  caught  a  glimpse  of  it  be- 
tween the  sombre  walls,  was  still  roseate. 
More  than  ever  the  city  seemed"  frozen, 
like  that  enchanted  Eastern  capital  peopled 
by  stone  inhabitants.     Sometimes  turning  a 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


187 


1 


corner  we  would  see  the  roof-line  of  a  loftv 
palace,  painted  by  the  sun,  but  this  only 
increased  the  superstitious  shiver  of  the 
lower  darkness.  At  length,  when  totally 
desorienteydiS  Alexis  expressed  it,  we  came  out 
on  an  open  place  and  stopped  in  astonish- 
ment. Here  it  was  still  twilight — daylight 
even — and  the  cathedral,  which  w^e  were 
looking  at,  was  a  conflagration  ignited  down 
to  the  portals.  What  surprised  us,  however, 
was  not  so  much  the  unexpected  illumination, 
as  the  modern  appearance  of  the  fagade. 
Square,  heavy,  and  not  particularly  beautiful, 
the  church  might  have  been  a  fabric  of  our 
own  century  set  down  amid  the  undated 
buildings  of  Time.  What  could  we  think, 
we  who  had  been  wandering  in  the  caves  of 
Eblis,  to  come  upon  something  not  unknown, 
the  like  of  which  we  had  seen  before  ? 

Yet,  as  we  continued  gazing,  the  light 
ascended,  fading  as  it  went,  until  the  triple 
crown  on  the  northwest  tower  flickered  like 
expiring  sparks.  The  mirage  of  contempo- 
raneousness vanished,  and  the  cathedral  fell 
back  into  harmony  with  the  surrounding 
tombs. 


/ 
i 


\  4 


1 88 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


II. 


TOLEDO  cathedral  by  daylight  strikes  the 
same  modern  note.  It  hides  its  huge 
proportions  ingenuously,  like  a  genius  stoop- 
ing to  converse  with  common  men.  It  is  not 
tricky.  It  does  not  rear  its  enormous  crest 
and  vast  bulk  suddenly.  Such  a  -coup  de 
theatre  is  beneath  Toledo.  Like  a  mountain, 
it  waits  complacently  for  you  to  grow  into  a 
conception  of  its  immensity. 

The  first  circle  of  your  growth  is  an  en- 
dorsement of  the  accepted  opinion,  that 
it  is  not  the  exterior,  but  the  interior  of 
this  famous  church  that  is  so  magnificent. 
What  we  fancied  during  our  twilight  visit 
is  true  in  daylight  and  in  fact.  The 
architects  of  the  last  three  centuries  have 
worked  their  destructive  will  on  the  lower 
part  of  the  west  fagade,  leaving  untouched 
nothing  characteristic  or  beautiful.  This 
sweeping  statement  does  not  include  every 
later  addition.  The  northwest  tower  is  fine, 
although  it  was  repaired  in  1660,  after  a  fire. 
The  steeple  would  be  imposing  on  a  less 
grand  building.  It  rises,  a  simple  square 
tower,  from  the  base  to  about  170  feet  in  the 


\ 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


189 


air,  changes  to  an  octagon  with  turrets  and 
pinnacles,  and  dwindles  to  a  low  spire.  The 
companion  tower  was  left  unfinished  up  to 
the  last  century,  when  an  Italian  dome,  too 
low,  and  utterly  out  of  keeping,  terminated  it. 

The  sculptures  of  the  circular  west  window, 
and  the  great  doorway,  were  carried  out 
about  a  century  earlier  than  the  northwest 
tower.  Not  so  glorious  as  the  doorway  of 
St.  Catherine,  which  opens  from  the  cloister, 
the  sculptures  of  the  west  doorway  neverthe- 
less detach  themselves  from  the  gloom  cast 
by  the  heavy  bronze  doors,  with  peculiar 
effect.  The  subject. is  the  Last  Supper,  and 
our  Lord  and  the  twelve  apostles  sit  in  deep 
niches,  which  are  carried  up  all  around  the 
arch.  The  other  great  doorways  are  almost 
all  modernized,  and  even  this  one  hardly 
offers  a  proper  vestibule  to  the  interior. 
That  is  found  in  the  dusky  richness  of  the 
recessed  Catalina  door. 

Before  this  portal  and  in  the  cloisters  we 
lingered,  almost  afraid  to  go  in,  lest  we  should 
not  have  our  expectations  realized.  Entering, 
we  stood  at  the  end  of  the  north  transept. 
The  view  from  there  is  like  a  glimpse  of  Par- 
adise. It  is  the  great  view  of  the  church;  a 
long  sweep  into  the  double  aisles  about  the 
choir,  across  the  high  altar  and  down  the  side 
aisles  of  the  nave.      It  is  a  view  of  grand  ex- 


^ 


r 


IQO 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


panse,  remote  height,  and  atmosphere  enough 
for  one  day  of  the  world.  If  we  could  only 
have  been  satisfied  to  stand  there  for  a  long, 
long  time,  and  then  gone  away  ! 

For  the  view  across  the  north  transept  is 
not  merely  the  pre-eminent  view  of  Toledo ; 
it  is  the  only  one.    When  you  abandon  it  and 
pass  within  the  nave,  or  cross  to  the  outer 
aisle,  you  lose  proportion  and  perspective,  and 
seem  to  wander  in  a  big  echoing  hall.     The 
primate   church  of  Spain  is  too  big  and  too 
/  white  ;  it  is  St.  Peter's,  covered  with  a  coat 
of  whitewash.     All   the   rich   colors   of   the 
profuse    painted  glass    cannot  mitigate   the 
gruesome  whiteness  of  the  walls,  nor  trans- 
form the  church  into  a  sanctuary  of  a  cheer- 
ful   religion ;  all    its    carving,  tracery    and 
gilding— in  which  it  is  richer  than  any  other 
Spanish   church— leave   it   gaunt,  stern  and 
unlovely.     The  gloom  of  Toledo  is  the  tem- 
porary absence  of  light,  not  the  Gothic  dusk 
that  the  imagination  fondly  peoples  with  the 
rush  of  wings,  or  warms   with  the  smile  of 
serene  faces.     It  is  not  that  strange  shadowy 
twilight,  where  a  wraith  of  sound  haunts  the 
silence  like  a  whispered  chant;  or  where  we 
see,  phantom-like  in  the  obscure  depths,  the 
priest,  the   nuns,  the   kneeling   devotee,  the 
distant  aisles,  the  slender   cross,  the   haloed 
saints  in  their  niches,  the  glimmering  robes 


V' 


THREE  TOLEDAN  DAYS. 


19T 


of  the  Virgin,  and  the  long  dim  reach  of 
sculptured  tombs.  It  is  not  that  profound 
quiet  and  brooding  gloom,  where  all  the 
agony  and  sorrow  of  the  worshippers  for  four 
hundred  years — their  sighs,  their  tears,  their 
prayers — lie  hushed  in  the  peace  that  pass- 
eth  understanding.  For  Toledo  does  not, 
as  other  churches,  impress  one  that  here  the 
troubled  and  despairing  cry  of  the  heart,  the 
pent-up  flood  of  grief ,  that  man  in  his  helpless 
and  fleeting  life  pours  out  before  his  Maker, 
will  be  stilled  forever  in  the  supreme  bosom 
of  the  church.  There  is  nowhere  in  its 
atmosphere  that  sublime  calm  which  one 
feels,  a  calm  that  passes  across  the  soul  like  a 
transfiguration — as  the  spirit  in  the  Bible 
passed  across  the  face  of  the  waters. 

The  truth  seems  to  be  that  Toledo,  to  be 
viewed  aright,  should  be  seen  in  gala.  I  like 
to  imagine  it  as  it  must  have  looked  on  a  day 
of  civic  or  religious  ceremony  ;  its  pavement 
carpeted  with  velvets  from  the  looms  of 
Flanders  ;  its  walls  hung  with  banners  and 
tapestry ;  its  altars  decked  with  the  pomp  of 
drapery  and  plate ;  its  aisles  and  choir 
crowded  with  courtiers  and  ecclesiastical 
grandees,  magnificent  in  vestments  of  silk 
and  brocade,  sparkling  with  jewels  and  gold 
and  silver  laces.  For  such  a  brilliant  throng, 
the  stately  fabric  offers  a  fitting  setting. 


i 


192 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


But  when  the  lights   are  out,  the  banners 
down,  the  precious  vessels  locked   up  in  the 
chapter-house,  like    all    fabrics    erected  for 
magnificent  ceremonies,  Toledo   is  not  in  a 
state  to   receive  critical   visitors.     They  go 
about,  longing  for  the  hidden  things,  and  look- 
ing ill-humoredly  at  what  is  left.  Yet  some  of 
the  fixtures  are  almost  unmixed  delights.  Par- 
ticularly beautiful   is   the   choir   screen,  the 
most  gorgeous  in   Spain,  and  the  feature  of 
the  greatest  interest  in  the  cathedral.     It  en- 
closes  the  whole  of   the  eastern  bay  of  the 
nave,  and  is   supposed  to   have  crossed  the 
transepts  and  completely  shut  them  out  from 
the  choir.    To-day  the  work  of  the  old  sculp- 
tors  extends   but   to   the   transept   column, 
where  it  joins,  at  right  angles,  new  carvings 
in  designs  of  lions  and  castles.     Behind  the 
altar,  also,  the   old   screen   work    has   been 
mutilated  to  admit  that  sickening  execution 
in  marble,  of  angels,  clouds  and  rays  of  light, 
knovv^n  as  El  Transparente. 

The  design  of  the  screen  that  crosses  the 
nave  is  an  arcade  raised  upon  marble  shafts, 
terminated  by  pointed  arches  benefath  each 
of  which  is  a  niche  containing  a  subject  sculpt- 
ured in  high  relief.  A  delicate  balustrade 
connects  the  canopies  over  these  sculptures, 
and  along  it  perch  strange  figures  of  humans 
and  beasts  commixed,  so  characteristic  of  the 


# 


I 


( 

> 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


193 


mediaeval  sculptors  wuth  whom  the  spirit  of 
life  was  the  spirit  of  naivete. 

I  did  not,  however,  experience  as  much 
pleasure  in  dissecting  the  sculptures  and  fol- 
lowing up  the  story  told  by  each  one,  as  in 
standing  off  at  a  little  distance  and  contem- 
plating the  screen  as  a  whole,  when  its  effect 
was  like  an  inspiration.  I  think  I  could  not 
listen  to  one  criticising  it  without  loss  of 
temper.  I  mean,  of  course,  if  the  criticism 
were  to  be  directed  against  the  screen  as  a 
creation  of  art,  and  not  against  its  use  here 
for  which  there  is  no  defense.  It  has  no  right 
in  the  cathedral  where  its  vista-breaking 
presence  is  almost  a  crime.  Nay,  it  zuas  a 
crime  to  erect  in  this  church,  which  in  plan 
belongs  to  the  French  school,  a  choir  and 
screen  so  essentially  Spanish. 

But,  inside  the  choir,  we  no  longer  make 
distinctions  of  nationality,  for  it  belongs  to 
Magnificence,  a  country  of  which  we  are  all 
citizens,  at  least,  in  dreams.  It  is  a  church  in 
itself  ;  a  church  of  carved  wood,  ornamental 
marble,  and  shining  bronze  and  brass.  There 
are  two  rows  of  stalls,  the  upper  by  Berruguete 
and  Felipe  de  Burgona,  and  the  lower  range 
were  carved  by  Maestro  Rodrigo,  in  1493. 
They  are  pleasing  in  shape,  tall  and  massive 
and  enriched  with  tracery,  panels  and  figures 
of  monkeys  and   other    grotesque    animals 


194 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


doing  all  sorts  of  acrobatic  feats  with  their 
tails. 

i  We  went  to  the  chapels — San  Ildefonzo- 
which  enshrines  the  slab  where  the  Virgin's 
feet  alighted,  when  she  came  down  to 
earth  to  inspire  the  inception, of  this  cathe- 
dral ;  the  Santiago  where  Don  Alvaro  de 
Luna  and  his  wife  are  buried,  and  the  Santa 
Lucia,  where  there  is  an  extremely  rich 
Moorish  arch  w^ithout  a  bit  of  connection,, 
except  that  of  gem  to  casket,  to  the  fine 
Gothic  pointed  chapel.  We  visited  others 
as  beautiful  and  as  interesting,  but  after 
awhile,  human  nature  wearied  of  their  mar- 
bles and  gilding  and  iron  work.  We  thought 
to  rest  our  eyes  upon  the  more  perishable 
riches  of  Toledo,  the  world  famous  precio- 
diades  of  this  sacred  see ;  the  pearl  mantle  of 
the  silver  Virgin,  her  rings,  necklaces  and 
bracelets. 

That  we  did  not  behold  these  things  was 
not  our  fault,  but  the  old  sacristan's.  Why 
he  suspected  us,  I  cannot  say,  but  he  is  old, 
he  has  lived  a  long  time  and  acquired  a  vast 
experience.  We  forgave  him  because  he  gave 
us  the  key  to  the  bell-tower,  but  he  knew  we 
could  not  steal  the  bells.  This  sacristan  was 
an  old,  old  man,  with  contempt  for  the  human 
race  that  sounded  a  fathom  deep  for  every 
one  of  his  years.     He  had  a  pointed,  wizened 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


195 


.1 


1 


brown  face,  set  with  little  twinkling  black 
eyes— a  very  mole  in  appearance,  and  quite 
as  averse  to  sunlight.  He  was  shifty  and 
double  in  his  dealings  with  us,  and  while  ac- 
cepting fees,  never  allowed  them  to  soften 
him.  He  seemed  to  have  outlived  the  value 
but  not  the  greed  of  money,  and  he  cherished 
the  treasures  of  the  cathedral  in  the  same 
miserly  way,  loving  them  as  long  as  he  could 
hide  them.  He  made  a  number  of  appoint- 
ments for  us  to  visit  the  wardrobe  of  the 
Great  Queen,  but  he  broke  them  all.  After 
we  had  succeeded  in  wrenching  the  bell 
tower  key  off  his  girdle,  it  was  useless  to  beg^ 
or  bribe  him  for  anything  beside. 

The  journey  to  the  upper  regions  of  Toledo 
is  exceptional.  You  ascend  by  a  staircase  in 
the  archbishop's  palace  to  a  gallery  thrown 
over  the  roof,*  connecting  the  houses  of  the 
clergy  and  the  servants  of  the  church.  This 
gallery  entirely  surrounds  the  upper  cloister, 
and  a  black  stairway  leads  thence  to  the 
tower  of  the  bells.  The  ascent  is  repaid  by 
making  the  acquaintance  of  San  Eugenio,  the 
famous  bell  that  has  rung  through  the  length 
and  breadth  of  Spain,  and  that  determines 
the  rank  as  a  singer  of  every  other  Spanish 
bell.  While  we  stood  there  the  wheel  of  bells 
began  to  move.  It  was  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  and  we  hastened  down  to  hear  the 


.1 


196 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


singing  of  the  lauds.  Blasts  of  sound,  like  the 
/  growls  of  a  giant  losing  his  prey,  pursued  our 
descending  steps,  jarring  heavier  and  growing 
more  and  more  like  the  rumble  of  Polyphemus 
as  we  neared  the  ground.  In  the  gallery  the 
bells  suddenly  changed  their  tune  and  rang 
out  light  and  airy  notes  like  a  soprano  chorus, 
a  delightful  harmony,  which  it  was  difficult 
,  to  believe  came  from  the  same  throats  that 
had  jangled  and  threatened  in  the  tower. 

Re-entering  the  cathedral  we  found  it  full 
of  sound.  A  little  group  of  worshippers  knelt 
before  the  screen  of  the  coro  listening  to  the 
organ  and  the  chanting  of  the  choir.  We 
drew  near,  but  soon  retreated  in  order  to 
discover  the  cause  of  a  puzzling  echo.  The 
pauses  of  the  service  and  the  silences  of  the 
organ  were  full  of  voices  and  instrumental 
peals.  It  seemed  impossible  they  could  be 
reverberations  from  the  rafters,  and,  indeed, 
the  sounds  came  from  the  western  aisle.  We 
walked  thither  and  solved  the  mystery.  A 
service  in  the  Mozarabic  chapel,  with  an 
organ  and  a  choir  equal  to  those  of  the  main 
church,  was  going  on  at  the  same  time.  The 
Mozarabic  ritual  differs  in  quantity  and  not 
in  kind  from  the  Roman.  It  is  still  performed 
daily  at  the  chapel,  and  is  a  stronger  instance 
of  the  durability  of  the  established  than  even 
Toledo  itself. 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


197 


r 


. 


We  lingered  in  this  chapel  to  study  the 
fresco  on  the  west  wall.  It  represents  the 
siege  of  Oran,  that  Cardinal  Ximenez  spared 
neither  money  nor  pains  to  swell  into  a  tre- 
mendous victory,  and  is  in  a  very  bad  state 
of  preservation.  In  its  best  days,  however^ 
it  could  have  had  no  artistic  value,  and  to 
say  truth,  I  think  the  present  are  its  best  days. 
It  strikes  the  eye  now  like  an  oasis  in  the 
whife  desert  of  Toledo.  What  improvement 
a  few  frescoes — even  bad  ones,  would  bring 
to  this  cathedral !  Toledo  is  grim,  unbend- 
ing, and  intolerant.  Her  attitude  is  a  cold 
holding  up  of  herself  to  the  staring  light 
of  day.  She  makes  hard  terms  with  every- 
thing within  her  gates,  beauties  as  well 
as  defects,  and,  like  a  Puritan,  neither 
forces  the  former  on  your  notice  nor  with- 
draws the  latter  into  the  graceful  evasion  of 
a  shadow. 

If  you  desert  the  main  church  for  certain 
bye-places,  you  will  find  plenty  of  color. 
One  of  these  warming  pans,  as  we  irreve- 
rently called  the  chapels  with  pictures,  is  the 
Capilla  de  San  Bias,  which  leads  to  the  sum- 
mer Chapter  House.  When  we  stood  on  the 
threshold  and  looked  across  the  dim-painted 
chapel  into  the  dimmer-painted  Chapter 
House,  it  was  like  looking  into  the  rich  heart 
of  a  pomegranajte.     For  there  are   some  old 


/ 


198 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


frescoes  which  have  long  since  gone  to  red, 
inside  the  dusky  upper  arches  of  San  Bias. 

Tfie  charm  of  San  Bias,  it  must  be  admitted, 
is  stolen  from  the  cathedral.     We  came  here 
again  and  again,  worn  out  with  the  Pallas-like 
sternness  of  the  interior,  to  relax  our  minds 
in  things  imbued  with  a  restful  shabbiness. 
Furniture  and  drapery  that   have  grown  too 
threadbare  for  use  at  those  altars  constantly 
on   parade,   are   relegated    here    where  the 
shadows  are  tender  to  their  rents   and  dis- 
abilities.    Things  that  would  be  hideous  in 
the  clean-swept  church   show   delightful  in 
San  Bias,  like  the  rags  and  stains  of  a  capt- 
ured banner.     Altar  cloths,  vestments,  pallia 
—rejected  by  vestiary  and  priest— are  brought 
here,    and   drip    from   tables   and    walls    in 
charming    intimacy    with    dust    and    moth. 
Squares  of  tapestry  with  the  Virgin's  head 
gone  to  a  smudge,  and  the  golden  crown  to 
base  metal,  napkins  with  dirty  fringes,  dingy 
chasubles — how   contented   they   look  to  be 
relieved  from  smart  brushings  and  decorous 
foldings ! 

And  because  this  chapel  is  dusky,  and  its 
roof  glows  like  smouldering  lire,  and  in  everv 
corner  a  lively  skirmish  goes  on  daily  be- 
tween yellow  light  and  chestnut  shade— 
because,  in  short,  decay  is  natural  and  cleanli- 
ness is  artificial,  these  miserable  rags,  instead 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


199 


of  suggesting  a  fire,  attract  the  eye  by  mel- 
odious hints  of  color  and  teach  us  how  Time's 
gradual  touch  may  moulder  into  beauty  even 
unimportant  things. 

What  it  is  that  stops  this  study  of  Time  in 
the  cathedral  is  difficult  to  put  in  words,  or  to 
explain  in   any  way.     A  day  spent  there  is 
more  than  enough  to  impress  you  with  its 
massive  symmetry  and  its  simple  nobleness. 
Two  days,  three,  or  a  week,  are  not  enough 
to  make  you  love  it.     In  fact,  by  as   many 
hours  as  you  pass  under  its  lofty  roof,   ^he 
feeling  grows   that    something    is   wanting. 
You  wander  everywhere,  absorbing   always 
something  of  its  coldness;  you  wander,  look- 
ing for  a  word  which  the  centuries  have  writ- 
ten,  the  word  finis.     It  is  not  there.     You 
carry  away  with   you   the   impression   of  a 
cathedral  unfinished  and  unfurnished,  which, 
for  that  reason,  the  ghosts  of  four  centuries 
will   not   deign  to   inhabit;    a  cathedral  on 
which    the   builder's     hand    faltered   before 
he  could   bequeath    his    plan   to   a   worthy 
descendant,     and     which,    ever    after,    men 
have  foolishly  hidden  away  from   the  com- 
pleting  tools  of  nature.     Like  an  unfinished 
manuscript     of    a    great     author,     Spain's 
primate    church    appeals    to    the    curiosity 
of  the  brain  rather  than  to  the  affection  of 
the  heart. 


2CO 


THREE    TOLEDAN   DAYS. 


THRKE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


2C1 


III. 


AT  last,  as  at  first,  one  is  forced  to  admit 
there  is  no  writing  intelligibly   about 
Toledo.     To  say  that  it  is  a  shell  with  a  rim 
of  crustacean  inhabitants  is  not  description, 
but  generalization.      Nothing  is  easier  than 
to  generalize  over  the  city  of  the  Visigoths. 
Perhaps,  after  staying  there  only  three  days 
I  am  audacious  in  writing  anything,  but  for 
the  impertinence    I  have  two  excuses,  one 
being  that  few  people  stay  so  long,  and   the 
other  that  the  actual  Toledo  utterly  failed  to 
dislodge  the   mental  Toledo.     Before  I  went 
there  it  existed    as  a   city    of  terraces,    of 
houses  whose  roofs  made  hanging  galleries 
from  which  dark-eyed  ladies  looked  down  on 
the  lists  in  the  Vega.     The  women  I  saw  in 
Toledo  may  have  had  black  eyes,  but   they 
were  neither  beautiful   nor  ladies,   and  yet 
there  gleams  again  for  me  on  the  cliff  walls 
of  Toledo  the  silken  splendor  of  Aldegonde's 
pavilion. 

The  actual  city  has  neither  wisdom  nor 
romance  to  disclose,  and  not  much  of  what  is 
commonly  called  interest.  It  serves  but  as 
a  resting-place  for  the  overworked  imagina- 


tion.  Somewhere  between  presentiment  and 
emotion,  Toledo  lies— the  Toledo,  that  is,  of 
the  mind,  and  the  time  spent  within  the  gates 
of  the  hoary  capital  is  but  an  hiatus  between 
periods  given  over  to  visions. 

Which  shall  I  write  about,  asks  one,  w^ish- 
ing  to  tell  the  truth,  the  dream  city  or  the 
real?  And  how  can  one  decide  when  there 
is  no  real,  when  the  description  of  Toledo  as 
it  exists  is  the  description  of  a  stone  three- 
quarters  in  shadow  ? 

One  easy  method  of  describing  Toledo  is 
to  tell  what  is  not  there.  It  is  certain  that 
we  saw  no  lists  in  the  Vega,  no  silken  dra- 
peries, no  beautiful  women.  The  inhabitants 
made  no  effort  to  amuse  us,  but  left  us  free 
to  reconstruct  the  place  with  reverie,  and 
destroy  it  again  with  ennui.  For  two  days 
we  built  and  tore  down,  and  on  the  third 
found  ourselves  reduced  to  accept  the  ancient 
city  for  what  it  was,  and  instead  of  going 
about  dreaming,  we  went  looking.  Matters 
had  adjusted  themselves,  and  we  might  have 
stayed  on  indefinitely,  leading  tranquil  lives, 
and  dreaming  of  Toledo,  as  of  any  other 
dim  tract  of  No  Man's  Land,  that  we  never 
expected  to  behold  except  in  dreams. 

Meanwhile  our  eyes  saw  whatever  life  was 
to  be  seen  in  Toledo.  The  blood  flowed  with 
comparative  rapidity  in  a  smart  little  street 


202 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


not  far  from  the  Fonda  de  Lino.      We  went 
there  to  buy  a  pistol,  and   the   shop   where 
such  a  modern  invention  could  be  found,  was 
of  all   places,  an  antiquary  shop.     But  we 
remained  to  turn  over  what  seemed  to   be 
treasures,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  all   we 
did  not  buy  were  treasures.   The  rubbish  we 
selected  was  not  forced  on  us  by  the  cheerful 
merchant  whom  I  wish  to  commend   as  the 
only  civil  shop-keeper  out  of   Madrid.     He 
had  the  true  American  salesman's  sympathy 
for  the  purchaser,  and  instead  of  scowling  at 
us  over  his  brasero,  after  the   almost  univer- 
sal Spanish  custom,  he  felt  glad  to  show  us 
his  goods.     His  little  shop— dark  and  dirty 
a«  a  self-respecting  antiquity  shop  ought  to 
be -was  a  veritable  museum  of  curiosities. 
It  was  particularly  rich  in  curios  of  the  six- 
teenth      century—embroideries,      carvings, 
tapestries— and  encouraged  by  our  exclama- 
tions at  the  first  articles  exhibited,  he  brought 
out  of  cabinets,  drawers,  and  pigeon  holes, 
an   almost   limitless    treasury.      Rembrandt 
would  have  found  in  this  shop  abundant  ma- 
terial   for   enriching    his    studio.       From  a 
back  room  no  larger  than  a  closet,  the  mer- 
chant brought  forth  a  pile  of   coverlets  of 
velvets,  silk,  and  stuff  stiff   with   gold   and 
silver,   that   reached   to  his    shoulder.       It 
seemed  as  if  this  merchant  had  robbed  all  the 


THREE  TOLEDAN  DAYS. 


203 


beds  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  heaped 
their  riches  and  luxuries  in  the  narrow  com- 
pass of  his  shop.  Antique  arms,  coats  of  mail, 
shields  that  preserve  traces  of  the  golden 
cross,  Moorish  scimitars  and  poniards,  with 
chased  silver  scabbards,  or  sheaths  of  velvet 
or  leather,  chaplets  of  cedar  of  Lebanon, 
gold  and  silver  images  of  curious  taste,  and 
innumerable  other  articles  of  ancient  fashion, 
and  almost  unknown  uses — all  these  things 
has  this  poverty-stricken  merchant  in  his 
costly  and  singular  collection,  and  he  allows 
you  to  turn  and  tumble  over  every  article  to 
your  heart's  content. 

Upon  the  walls  were  hung  trophies  wrested 
from  the  Moors,  and  a  banner  captured  by 
Don  John  at  Lepanto.  As  to  the  latter, 
knowing  how  jealously  Spain  has  ever  guarded 
the  spoils  of  her  natural  son,  we  kept  an  in- 
credulous silence.  Our  enthusiasm,otherwise, 
was  quite  satisfactory  to  the  merchant,  and 
he  fed  it  lavishly.  From  a  tiny  tahatiere  of 
some  strange-smelling  wood,  he  extracted  a 
bracelet  woven  from  the  hair  of  Don  Pedro 
and  Maria  Padilla.  .  He  followed  this  with 
another,  a  snuff-box  in  silver,  which  he  shook 
in  his  hand  eliciting  a  sound  like  a  dry  pea  in 
its  pod.  This  he  was  about  to  open  after 
smilingly  asserting  it  contained  the  preserved 
heart  of  Mendoza,  but  we  looked  him  sternly 


204 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


m  the  face,  all  our  admiration  turned  to  sad- 
ness, quickly  paid  him  for  the  pistol  and  other 
purchases,  and  departed.  I  have  regretted 
since  that  I  took  offense  so  quickly.  It  could 
have  done  me  no  harm  to  look  at  the  withered 
membrane-of  course  it  was  not  the  heart 
of  Mendoza,  but  it  could  have  done  no  harm 
to  look. 

The  other  shops  in  the  Place  of  the  Mer- 
chants sold  more  modern  rags  than  the  one 
we  patronized.     Half  of  them  sported  in  the 
ivmdows  and  before  the  door§,  a  motley  col- 
lection  of  cotton  scarfs,  stockings  and  shirts 
while   the   other   half   exhibited  an    equally 
gaudy  show  of  vegetables  of  which  the  staple 
were  beans  and  garlic.     It  was  not  easy  to 
pick  out  of  the  knot  of  people  clustered  about 
each  shop  door,  the  merchant  and  the  cus- 
tomer, for  in  Spain  both  are  plural.     No  one 
in  Toledo  goes  alone  to  the  market-place  • 
every  citizen   is   accompanied    by  his   entire 
household,  and  to  meet  this  concerted  action, 
as   a   measure   of  self    protection,  the   pro' 
prietor  surrounds  himself  with  his  partisans 
Accordingly,  when  the  .two  armies  join  battle 
oyer  a  pint  of  beans  or  a  yard  of  calico,  the 
Flace  of  the  Merchants  becomes  a  very  livelv 
spot.  -^  ^ 

In  comparison,  the  Zocodover,  now  called 
the  Piaza  de  la  Constitucion,  is  dead,  although 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


205 


it  is   the  popular  promenade  of  the  citizens. 
There  the  Toledan,  not  being  animated  by  the 
desire  to  get  a  real  advantage  of  his  neigh- 
bor, manifests   his  absolute   indifference  to 
everything  and  everybody.     It  is  colder  in 
the  Zocodover  than  in  other  parts  of  Toledo 
which  is  natural,  for  it  is  open,  while  the  nar- 
i»w  and  winding  streets  were  so  built  by  the 
Moors  to  protect  them  against  the  sun  and 
wind.     But  the    cold  seems  caused   by  the 
frown  of  the  Alcazar  that  crowns,  stiff  and 
severe,  the  crest  on  the  right.  We  never  saw 
many  people  in  the  plaza,  sometimes  a  party 
of  very  poor  peasants  chatting  together  in 
mournful    monotonous    voices,   and    always 
three  or  four  officers  who  flung  their  white 
braided  blue  capes  over  their  shoulders,  rolled 
and  smoked  cigarettes  and,  at  regular  inter- 
vals, solemnly  saluted  themselves.  The  shops 
about  the  place  might  as  well  have  been  closed 
for^  all  the  custom  they  attracted,    but  the 
cafes,   especially  that  of  the  Constitucion,  en- 
joyed a  rushing  trade.     We  used  to  drop  in 
to  shiver  on  a  bench  as  hard  as  those  of  the 
Zocodover  and   listen  to  the    conversation. 
This  listening  could   not  be  called  eaves- 
dropping, for  every  speaker  roared  out  his 
sentiments  so  as  to  be  heard  in  all  parts  of  the 
room.  The  favorite  and  constantly  recurring 
word  of  these  chocolate  and  coffee-drinkers 


2o6 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS, 


was  *'abajo."  Every  body  seemed  to  be  de- 
sirous  to  put  something  or  somebody  down. 
No,  not  every  body,  for  the  officers  and  the 
cadets  from  the  Alcazar  military  school  spoke 
of  institutions  they  were  willing  to  leave 
standing,  but  these  were  mostly  in  Madrid, 
where  the  officers  had  been  and  the  cadets 
laid  eager  plans  to  go.  ^ 

These  bored  officers  and  callow  cadets 
formed  our  last  link  with  the  modern  world. 
We  clutched  at  it,  this  final  day,  in  order  to 
resist  the  deadly  fascination  of  ruin  and  went 
to  see  how  and  where  they  live.  We  went 
first  to  the  college  of  Santa  Cruz,  where  the 
sons  of  officers  are  lodged  during  the  three 
years  course  of  the  military  instruction  en« 
joined  by  the  State.  There  were  less  than  a 
hundred  of  these  youths,  who  pay  $i.oo  a 
day  for  their  board  ;  the  remaining  five  hun- 
dred cadets  being  lodged  and  boarded  in  the 
Alcazar  for  half  that  sum. 

The  college  of  Santa  Cruz — formerly  a  hos- 
pital, fdon^ed  by  Cardinal  Mendoza,  is  one  of 
the  loveliest  early  sixteenth  century  build- 
ings of  Spain— an  era  when  the  florid  Gothic 
was  merging  into  the  Renaissance.  In  this 
monument  the  transition  is  accomplished 
without  any  of  the  incongruities  so  frequent- 
ly met  with  in  plateresque  examples.  Surely 
Enrique  de  Egas,  when  he  placed  the  match- 


THRKE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


207 


less  group  of  the  invention  of  the  Cross  over 
the  portal,  wrought  with  the  inspired  chisel 
of  Alonzo  Cano.  The  patio  fulfills  the  gate's 
promise.  It  is  surrounded  by  two  stories  of 
light  arcades  supported  by  slender  white 
columns,  and  it  contains  a  staircase  the  like 
of  which  can;iot  be  seen  elsewhere  in  Spain. 
Upon  it  have  been  lavished  all  the  resources 
of  artists  trained  in  two  fruitful  schools,  the 
Renaissance  and  the  Mudejar. 

But   we   hasten   to  visit  the  home  of  the 
other  five  hundred  cadets;  we  feel  more  in- 
terested   in    them   than  in   these  pampered 
young  aides-de-camp,   and,  besides,  nobody 
asks  us  to  see  any  other  part  of  Santa  Cruz 
but  the  patio.     Presently  we  are  climbing  the 
highest  hill  of  Toledo  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Royal  Alcazar.     We  stand  for  a  moment  in 
the  plaza  beneath  its  frowning  facade  and  en- 
joy  a  magnificent  view  of  Toledo,  its  descend- 
ing streets  just  distinguishable  among  sloping 
roofs,  its  ascending  spires  that  still  are  min- 
arets, its  broad  road  to  the  bridge  of  Alcan- 
tara, the  green-blue  Tagus,  the  granite  hill 
opposite  crowned  by  the  ruined  castle  of  San 
Cervantes.     All  the  details  of  this  view  look 
like  a  work  of  Nature  in  which  man  had  no 
part. 

The  Alcazar,  too.  looks  like  a  part  of  the 
rock  on  which  it  stands.     Its  indestructible 


2C8 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


walls  have  had  nine  centuries  in  which  to 
amalgamate  with  their  foundations.  And  yet 
this  palace  has  seen  terrible  convulsions. 
The  Portuguese  burned  it  in  the  war  of  suc- 
cession, and  Cardinal  Lorenzana  restored  it  for 
Charles  III.  just  in  time  for  Soulf  s  soldiers 
to  occupy  it  as  a  barrack.  The  same  troops 
burned  it  again  when  evacuating  the  half- 
ruined  city.  It  was  left  to  itself  for  half  a 
century,  Isabella  having  bestow^ed  her  love 
and  money  elsewhere,  and  then  the  short 
lived  republic  began  to  restore  it  for  a  mili- 
tary school.  Alphonso  completed  the  work 
and  carried  out  the  intention.  Now,  the  vast 
quadrangle  echoes  to  the  spurred-heels  of 
lively  school- boys,  their  names  are  scribbled 
on  the  fine  staircase  and  their  mischievous 
eyes  peer  down  from  the  upper  galleries  on 
the  sauntering  strangers.  They  are  under 
the  charge  of  an  Inspector-General  and  a 
numerous  staff  of  teachers.  They  pay  a  nom- 
inal price  for  their  board,  but  the  instruction, 
which  comprehends  a  curriculum  almost 
identical  with  that  of  West  Point,  is  gratui- 
tous. A  very  relaxed  discipline,  compared 
to  our  Hudson  river  academy,  prevails  in  the 
Alcazar. 

On  the  low  parapet,  in  front  of  the  palace, 
I  lingered  for  awhile.  The  roofs  below  me 
lay  plunged  in  dark  blue  shadows.     The  end 


THREE    TOLEDAN    DAYS. 


209 


of  the  afternoon  and  our  stay  approached. 
Three  days  had  elapsed  since  we  reached 
Toledo,  and  we  knew  as  much  of  its  physi- 
ognomy as  we  could  ever  learn.  We  had 
seen  its  churches  and  chapels,  its  palaces  of 
king  and  monk.  These  ghosts  had  filled  me 
with  an  impatient  longing  to  be  gone. 

We  ran  back  to  the  Fonda  de  Lino  and, 
for  the  last  time,  entered  the  omnibus  to  go 
to  the  station.  With  some  confusion,  for  we 
had  cut  him  remorselessly,  we  recognized 
Alexis  Amaudry  in  a  fellow-passenger.  He 
had  put  on  a  broad-brimmed  sombrero  in 
place  of  his  usual  silk  hat,  and,  with  the  ex- 
change, he  seemed  to  have  taken  on  another 
character.  He  had  nothing  to  say,  but 
waved  his  hand,  and  continued  to  read  a 
little  note  book. 

The  train  started,  bearing  us  southward, 
and,  as  we  took  our  last  look  at  the  city  dis- 
appearing behind  its  granite  hills,  we  tried 
to  answer  a  question,  unanswerable  then  and 
which  has  remained  unsolved,  Were  we  glad 
or  were  we  sorry  that  we  had  seen  Toledo  ? 


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